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I 


1>- 


C H R I S T U S 


A MYSTERY. 

BY 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


IN  THREE  PARTS. 
' WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


V 


JKOSTON  (TGLLEGE  LIBRARY 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 
BOSTON: 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  & Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  & Co. 

1873. 


O - 

,'->5g 

■P' 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1872, 
BY  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


65v)'J5 


University  Press:  Welch,  Bigelow,  & Co., 

? 1978  Cambridge. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Introitus • 9 

PART  ONE.  — THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 

THE  FIRST  PASSOVER. 

I.  Vox  Clamantis 15 

II.  Mount  Quaran-tania 16 

III.  The  Marriage  in  Cana 17 

IV,  In  the  Cornfields 19 

V.  Nazareth 20 

VI.  The  Sea  of  Galilee 

VII.  The  Demoniac  of  Gadara 23 

VIII.  Talitha  Cumi 24 

IX.  The  Tower  of  Magdala 25 

X.  The  House  of  Simon  the  Pharisee 26 

THE  SECOND  PASSOVER. 

I,  Before  the  Gates  of  Mach..erus 31 

II.  Herod’s  Banquet-Hall 32 

III.  Under  the  Walls  of  Mach.erus 33 

IV,  Nicodemus  at  Night 34 


CONTENTS. 


iv 

V.  Blind  Bartimeus 35 

VI.  Jacob’s  Well 37 

VII.  The  Coasts  of  C.«esarea  Philippi 38 

VIII.  The  Young  Ruler 40 

IX.  At  Bethany 41 

X.  Born  Blind 42 

XI.  Simon  Magus  and  Helen  of  Tyre *43 

THE  THIRD  PASSOVER. 

I.  The  Entry  into  Jerusalem 49 

II.  Solomon’s  Porch 50 

III.  Lord,  is  it  I ? 52 

IV.  The  Garden  of  Gethsemane 53 

V.  The  Palace  of  Caiaphas 54 

VI.  Pontius  Pilate 56 

VII.  Barabbas  in  Prison 57 

VIII.  Ecce  Homo 58 

IX.  Aceldama  59 

X.  The  Three  Crosses  60 

XI.  The  Two  Maries 61 

XII.  The  Sea  of  Galilee 61 

Epilogue 64 

First  Interlude.  The  Abbot  Joachim 65 


PART  TWO.— THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Prologue 71 

I. 

I.  The  Castle  of  Vautsberg  on  the  Rhine  . . . • 73 

II.  Court-Yard  of  the  Castle  76 


CONTENTS.  V 

II. 

I.  A Farm  in  the  Odenwald  78 

II.  A Room  in  the  Farm-House 81 

III.  Elsie’s  Chamber 82 

IV.  The  Chamber  of  Gottlieb  and  Ursula  ....  83 

V.  A Village  Church 84 

VI.  A Room  in  the  Farm-House 88 

VII.  In  the  Garden 88 

III. 

I.  A Street  in  Strasburg  89 

II.  Square  in  Front  of  the  Cathedral 91 

III.  In  the  Cathedral 92 

IV.  The  Nativity.  A Miracle-Play 93 

IV. 

I.  The  Road  to  Hirschau 98 

II.  The  Convent  of  Hirschau 99 

III.  The  Scriptorium 101 

IV.  The  Cloisters 102 

V.  The  Chapel 103 

VI.  The  Refectory 104 

VII.  The  Neighboring  Nunnery 107 

V. 

I.  A Covered  Bridge  at  Lucerne no 

II.  The  Devil’s  Bridge 

III.  The  St.  Gothard  Pass 

IV.  At  the  Foot  of  the  Alps 


INTROITUS 


The  Angel  hearing  the  Prophet 
Habakkuk  through  the  air. 

Prophet.  Why  dost  thou  bear  me 
aloft, 

0 Angel  of  God,  on  thy  pinions 
O’er  realms  and  dominions  ? 

Softly  I float  as  a cloud 

In  air,  for  thy  right  hand  upholds  me. 
Thy  garment  enfolds  me  ! 

A ngel-  Lo  ! as  I passed  on  my  way 
In  the  harvest-field  I beheld  thee, 
When  no  man  compelled  thee. 

Bearing  with  thine  own  hands 
This  food  to  the  famishing  reapers, 

A flock  without  keepers  ! 

The  fragrant  sheaves  of  the  wheat 
Made  the  air  above  them  sweet ; 
Sweeter  and  more  divine 
Was  the  scent  of  the  scattered  grain. 
That  the  reaper’s  hand  let  fall 
To  be  gathered  again 
By  the  hand  of  the  gleaner  I 
Sweetest,  divinest  of  all. 

Was  the  humble  deed  of  thine. 

And  the  meekness  of  thy  demeanor  I 
Prophet.  Angel  of  Light, 

1 cannot  gainsay  thee, 

I can  but  obey  thee  ! 

Angel.  Beautiful  was  it  in  the  Lord’s 

To  behold  his  Prophet 
Feeding  those  that  toil, 

The  tillers  of  the  soil. 

But  why  should  the  reapers  eat  of  it 
And  not  the  Prophet  of  Zion 
In  the  den  of  the  lion  ? 

The  Prophet  should  feed  the  Prophet  I 
Therefore  I thee  have  uplifted. 

And  bear  thee  aloft  by  the  hair 
Of  thy  head,  like  a cloud  that  is  drifted 
Through  the  vast  unknown  of  the  air  1 
Five  days  hath  the  Prophet  been  lying 


In  Babylon,  in  the  den 
Of  the  lions,  death-defying, 

Defying  hunger  and  thirst ; 

But  the  worst 

Is  the  mockery  of  men  I 

Alas  ! how  full  of  fear 

Is  the  fate  of  Prophet  and  Seer  f 

Forevermore,  forevermore. 

It  shall  be  as  it  hath  been  heretofore  ; 
The  age  in  which  they  live 
Will  not  forgive 

The  splendor  of  the  everlasting  light. 
That  makes  their  foreheads  bright. 

Nor  the  sublime 
Fore-running  of  their  time  1 

Prophet.  O tell  me,  for  thouknowest. 
Wherefore  and  by  what  grace. 

Have  I,  who  am  least  and  lowest. 

Been  chosen  to  this  place. 

To  this  exalted  part? 

Angel.  Because  thou  art 
The  Struggler  ; and  from  thy  youth 
Thy  humble  and  patient  life 
Hath  been  a strife 
And  battle  for  the  Truth  ; 

Nor  hast  thou  paused  nor  halted. 

Nor  ever  in  thy  pride 
Turned  from  the  poor  aside. 

But  with  deed  and  word  and  pen 
Hast  served  thy  fellow-men  ; 
Therefore  art  thou  exalted  ! 

Prophet.  By  thine  arrow’s  light 
Thou  goest  onward  through  the  night, 
And  by  the  clear 
Sheen  of  thy  glittering  spear  I 
When  will  our  journey  end? 

A ngel.  Lo,  it  is  ended  1 
Yon  silver  gleam 
Is  the  Euphrates  stream. 

Let  us  descend. 

Into  the  city  splendid. 

Into  the  City  of  Gold  ! 

Prophet.  Behold ! 


INTROITUS, 


lO 


As  if  the  stars  had  fallen  from  their 
places 

Into  the  firmament  below, 

The  streets,  the  gardens,  and  the  va- 
cant spaces 

With  light  are  all  aglow  ; 

And  hark  ! 

As  we  draw  near. 

What  sound  is  it  I hear 

Ascending  through  the  dark  ? 

Angel.  The  tumultuous  noise  of  the 
nations. 

Their  rejoicings  and  lamentations, 


The  pleadings  of  their  prayer. 

The  groans  of  their  despair. 

The  cry  of  their  imprecations. 

Their  wrath,  their  love,  their  hate  ! 

Prophet.  Surely  the  world  doth  wait 
The  coming  of  its  Redeemer  ! 

Angel.  Awake  from  thy  sleep,  O 
dreamer  I 

The  hour  is  near,  though  late  ; 

Awake  ! write  the  vision  sublime. 

The  vision,  that  is  for  a time. 

Though  it  tarry,  wait ; it  is  nigh ; 

In  the  end  it  will  speak  and  not  lie. 


PART  ONE. 

THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 

THE  FIRST  PASSOVER. 


THE  FIRST  PASSOVER 


I. 

vox  CLAMANTIS. 

John  the  Baptist.  Repent  1 repent ! 
repent ! 

For  the  kingdom  of  God  is  at  hand, 
And  all  the  land 

Full  of  the  knowledge  of  the  Lord  shall 
be 

As  the  waters  cover  the  sea, 

And  encircle  the  continent  I 

Repent ! repent ! repent ! 

For  lo,  the  hour  appointed. 

The  hour  so  long  foretold 
By  the  Prophets  of  old, 

Of  the  corning  of  the  Anointed, 

The  Messiah,  the  Paraclete, 

The  Desire  of  the  Nations,  is  nigh  1 
He  shall  not  strive  nor  cry. 

Nor  his  voice  be  heard  in  the  street ; 
Nor  the  bruised  reed  shall  he  break. 
Nor  quench  the  smoking  flax  ; 

And  many  of  them  that  sleep 
In  the  dust  of  earth  shall  awake. 

On  that  great  and  terrible  day. 

And  the  wicked  shall  wail  and  weep. 
And  be  blown  like  a smoke  away. 

And  be  melted  away  like  wax. 

Repent ! repent  1 repent ! 

O Priest,  and  Pharisee, 

Who  hath  wariied  you  to  flee 
From  the  wrath  that  is  to  be  ? 

From  the  coming  anguish  and  ire? 

The  axe  is  laid  at  the  root 
Of  the  trees,  and  every  tree 
That  bringeth  not  forth  good  fruit 
Is  hewn  down  and  cast  into  the  fire  ! 

Ye  Scribes,  why  come  ye  hither? 
la  the  hour  that  is  uncertain. 


In  the  day  of  anguish  and  trouble. 

He  that  stretcheth  the  heavens  as  a cur- 
tain 

And  spreadeth  them  out  as  a tent. 
Shall  blow  upon  you,  and  ye  shall 
wither, 

And  the  whirlwind  shall  take  you  away 
as  stubble  ! 

Repent ! repent  ! repent ! 

Priest.  Who  art  thou,  O man  of 
prayer  1 

In  raiment  of  camel’s  hair. 

Begirt  with  leathern  thong. 

That  here  in  the  wilderness. 

With  a cry  as  of  one  in  distress, 
Preachest  unto  this  throng  ? 

Art  thou  the  Christ  ? 

John.  Priest  of  Jerusalem, 

In  meekness  and  humbleness, 

I deny  not,  I confess 
I am  not  the  Christ  ! 

Priest.  What  shall  we  say  unto 
them 

That  sent  us  here  ? Reveal 
Thy  name,  and  naught  conceal  I 
Art  thou  Elias? 

John.  No ! 

Priest.  Art  thou  that  Prophet,  then. 
Of  lamentation  and  woe. 

Who,  as  a symbol  and  sign 
Of  impending  wrath  divine 
Upon  unbelieving  men. 

Shattered  the  vessel  of  clay 
In  the  Valley  of  Slaughter? 

John.  Nay. 

I am  not  he  thou  namest  ! 

Priest.  Who  art  thou,  and  what  is 
the  word 

That  here  thou  proclaimest? 

John.  I am  the  voice  of  one 
Crying  in  the  wilderness  alone  : 
Prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  Lord ; 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


A rchitriclimis.  How  serene 

His  aspect  is  ! manly  yet  womanly. 

Paranymphus.  Most  beautiful  among 
the  sons  of  men  ! 

Oft  known  to  weep,  but  never  known 
to  laugh. 

Architriclinus.  And  tell  me,  she 
with  eyes  of  olive  tint. 

And  skin  as  fair  as  wheat,  and  pale 
brown  hair. 

The  woman  at  his  side? 

Paranymphus.  His  mother,  Mary. 

Architriclitms.  And  the  tall  figure 
standing  close  behind  them. 

Clad  all  in  white,  with  face  and  beard 
like  ashes, 

As  if  he  were  Elias,  the  White  Wit- 
ness, 

Come  from  his  cave  on  Carmel  to  fore- 
tell 

The  end  of  all  things? 

Paranymphus.  That  is  Manahem 
The  Essenian,  he  who  dwells  among 
the  palms 

Near  the  Dead  Sea. 

Architricli7t^ls.  He  who  foretold 
to  Herod 

He  should  one  day  be  King  ? 

Paranymphus.  The  same. 

Architriclinus.  Then  why 

Doth  he  come  here  to  sadden  with  his 
presence 

Our  marriage  feast,  belonging  to  a 
sect 

Haters  of  women,  and  that  taste  not 
wine  ? 

The  Musicians.  My  undefiled  is  but 
one. 

The  only  one  of  her  mother. 

The  choice  of  her  that  bare  her  ; 

The  daughters  saw  her  and  blessed 
her ; 

The  queens  and  the  concubines  praised 
her. 

Saying  : Lo  ! who  is  this 

That  looketh  forth  as  the  morning? 

Matiahem  {aside).  The  Ruler  of  the 
Feast  is  gazing  at  me. 

As  if  he  asked,  why  is  that  old  man 
here 

Among  the  revellers  ? And  thou,  the 
Anointed  ! 

Why  art  thou  here?  I see  as  in  a 
vision 


A figure  clothed  in  purple,  crowned 
with  thorns  ; 

I see  a cross  uplifted  in  the  darkness. 
And  hear  a cry  of  agony,  that  shall  echo 
Forever  and  forever  through  the  world  ! 

A rchitriclinus.  Give  us  more  wine. 
These  goblets  are  all  empty. 

Mary  _ {to  Christus).  They  have  no 
wine  ! 

Christus.  O woman,  what  have  I 
To  do  with  thee  ? Mine  hour  is  not 
yet  come. 

Mary  {to  the  servants).  Whatever 
he  shall  say  to  you,  that  do. 

Christus.  Fill  up  these  pots  with 
water. 

The  M usicians.  Come,  my  beloved, 
Let  us  go  forth  into  the  field. 

Let  us  lodge  in  the  villages  ; 

Let  us  get  up  early  to  the  vineyards. 
Let  us  see  if  the  vine  flourish. 

Whether  the  tender  grape  appear. 

And  the  pomegranates  bud  forth. 

Christus.  Draw  out  now, 

And  bear  unto  the  Ruler  of  the  Feast. 

Majiahem  {aside).  O thou,  brought 
up  among  the  Essenians, 
Nurtured  in  abstinence,  taste  not  the 
wine  ! 

It  is  the  poison  of  dragons  from  the 
vineyards 

Of  Sodom,  and  the  taste  of  death  is  in  it. 

A rchitriclinus  {to  the  Bridegroom). 
All  men  set  forth  good  wine  at 
the  beginning. 

And  when  men  have  well  drunk,  that 
which  is  worse ; 

But  thou  hast  kept  the  good  wine  until 
now. 

Manahem  {aside).  The  things  that 
have  been  and  shall  be  no  more. 
The  things  that  are,  and  that  hereafter 
shall  be. 

The  things  that  might  have  been,  and 
yet  were  not. 

The  fading  twilight  of  great  joys  de- 
parted. 

The  daybreak  of  great  truths  as  yet  un- 
risen. 

The  intuition  and  the  expectation 
Of  something,  which,  when  come,  is 
not  the  same, 

But  only  like  its  forecast  in  men’s 
dreams, 


THE  FIRST  PASSOVER. 


The  longing,  the  delay,  and  the  delight. 
Sweeter  for  the  delay  ; youth,  hope, 
love,  death. 

And  disappointment  which  is  also  death. 
All  these  make  up  the  sum  of  human 
life  ; _ ■ 

A dream  within  a dream,  a wind  at 
night 

Howling  across  the  desert  in  despair. 
Seeking  for  something  lost,  it  cannot 
find. 

Fate  or  foreseeing,  or  whatever  name 
Men  call  it,  matters  not ; what  is  to  be 
Hath  been  fore-written  in  the  thought 
divine 

From  the  beginning.  None  can  hide 
from  it. 

But  it  will  find  him  out;  nor  run  from 
it. 

But  it  o’ertaketh  him  ! The  Lord  hath 
said  it. 

The  Bridegroom  {to  the  Bride,  on 
the  balcony).  When  Abraham 
went  with  Sarah  into  Egypt, 

The  land  was  all  illumined  with  her 
beauty  ; 

But  thou  dost  make  the  very  night  it- 
self 

Brighter  than  day ! Behold,  in  glad 
procession. 

Crowding  the  threshold  of  the  sky 
above  us. 

The  stars  come  forth  to  meet  thee  with 
their  lamps  ; 

And  the  soft  winds,  the  ambassadors 
of  flowers. 

From  neighboring  gardens  and  from 
fields  unseen. 

Come  laden  with  odors  unto  thee,  my 
Queen  ! 

The  Musicians.  Awake,  O north- 
wind. 

And  cortie,  thou  wind  of  the  South, 
Blow,  blow  upon  my  garden. 

That  the  spices  thereof  may  flow  out. 

IV. 

IN  THE  CORNFIELDS. 

Philip.  Onward  through  leagues  of 
sun-illumined  corn. 

As  if  through  parted  seas,  the  pathway 
runs, 


19 

And  crowned  with  sunshine  as  the 
Prince  of  Peace 

Walks  the  beloved  Master,  leading  us. 

As  Moses  led  our  fathers  in  old  times 

Out  of  the  land  of  bondage  ! We  have 
found 

Him  of  whom  Moses  and  the  Prophets 
wrote, 

Jesus  of  Nazareth,  the  Son  of  Joseph. 

Nathatiael.  Can  any  good  come  out 
of  Nazareth? 

Can  this  be  the  Messiah  ? 

Philip.  Come  and  see. 

Nathanael.  The  summer  sun  grows 
hot ; I am  anhungered- 

How  cheerily  the  Sabbath-breaking 
quail 

Pipes  in  the  corn,  and  bids  us  to  his 
Feast 

Of  Wheat  Sheaves  ! How  the  bearded, 
ripening  ears 

Toss  in  the  roofless  temple  of  the  air ; 

As  if  the  unseen  hand  of  some  High- 
Priest 

Waved  them  before  Mount  Tabor  as 
an  altar ! 

It  were  no  harm,  if  we  should  pluck  and 
eat. 

Philip.  How  wonderful  it  is  to  walk 
abroad 

With  the  Good  Master  ! Since  the 
miracle 

He  wrought  at  Cana,  at  the  marriage 
feast, 

His  fame  hath  gone  abroad  through 
all  the  land. 

And  when  we  come  to  Nazareth,  thou 
shalt  see 

How  his  own  people  will  receive  their 
Prophet, 

And  hail  him  as  Messiah  ! See,  he 
turns 

And  looks  at  thee. 

Christus.  Behold  an  Israelite 

In  whom  there  is  no  guile. 

Nathanael.  Whence 

knowest  thou  me  ? 

Christus.  Before  that  Philip  called 
thee,  when  thou  wast 

Under  the  fig-tree,  I beheld  thee. 

Nathanael.  Rabbi  ! 

Thou  art  the  Son  of  God,  thou  art  the 
King 

Of  Israel ! 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


Christus.  Because  I said  I saw  thee 

Under  the  fig-tree,  before  Philip  called 
thee, 

Believest  thou  ? Thou  shalt  see  great- 
er things. 

Hereafter  thou  shalt  see  the  heavens 
unclosed. 

And  angels  of  God  ascending  and 
descending 

Upon  the  Son  of  Man  ! 

Pharisees  {passing).  Hail,  Rabbi_ ! 

Christus.  . Hail  ! 

Pharisees.  Behold  how  thy  disciples 
do  a thing 

Which  is  not  lawful  on  the  Sabbath- 
day, 

And  thou  forbiddest  them  not  ! 

Christus.  Have  ye  not  read 

What  David  did  when  he  anhungered 
was. 

And  all  they  that  were  with  him? 
How  he  entered 

Into  the  house  of  God,  and  ate  the 
shewbread, 

Which  was  not  lawful  saving  for  the 
priests  ? 

Have  ye  not  read,  how  on  the  Sabbath- 
days 

The  priests  profane  the  Sabbath  in  the 
Temple, 

And  yet  are  blameless?  But  I say  to  you. 

One  in  this  place  is  greater  than  the 
Temple  ! 

And  had  ye  known  the  meaning  of  the 
words, 

I will  have  mercy  and  not  sacrifice. 

The  guiltless  ye  would  not  condemn. 
The  Sabbath 

Was  made  for  man,  and  not  man  for 
the  Sabbath. 

{Passes  on  with  the  disciples.') 

Pharisees.  This  is,  alas  ! some  poor 
demoniac 

Wandering  about  the  fields,  and  utter- 
ing 

His  unintelligible  blasphemies 

Among  the  common  people,  who  re- 
ceive 

As  prophecies  the  words  they  compre- 
hend not  ! 

Deluded  folk  ! The  incomprehensible 

Alone  excites  their  wonder.  There  is 
none 


So  visionary,  or  so  void  of  sense. 

But  he  will  find  a crowd  to  follow  him  1 


V. 

NAZARETH. 

Christus  {reading  in  the  Syria- 
gogue).  The  Spirit  of  the  Lord 
God  is  upon  me. 

He  hath  anointed  me  to  preach  good 
tidings 

Unto  the  poor ; to  heal  the  broken- 
hearted ; 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn,  and  to 
throw  open 

The  prison  doors  of  captives,  and  pro- 
claim 

The  Year  Acceptable  of  the  Lord,  our 
God! 

{He  closes  the  hook  and  sits  down.) 

A Pharisee.  Who  is  this  youth  ? He 
hath  taken  the  Teacher’s  seat  ! 

Will  he  instruct  the  Elders  ? 

A Priest.  Fifty  years 

Have  I been  Priest  here  in  the  Syna- 
gogue, 

And  never  have  I seen  so  young  a man 

Sit  in  the  Teacher’s  seat  ! 

Christus.  Behold,  to-day 

This  scripture  is  fulfilled.  One  is  ap- 
pointed ’ 

And  hath  been  sent  to  them  that 
mourn  in  Zion, 

To  give  them  beauty  for  ashes,  and  the 
oil 

Of  joy  for  mourning  I They  shall 
build  again 

The  old  waste-places ; and  again  raise 
up 

The  former  desolations,  and  repair 

The  cities  that  are  wasted ! As  a 
bridegroom 

Decketh  himself  with  ornaments,  as  a 
bride 

Adorneth  herself  with  jewels,  so  the 
Lord 

Hath  clothed  me  with  the  robe  of 
righteousness. 

A Priest.  He  speaks  the  Prophet’s 
words  : but  with  an  air 

As  if  himself  had  been  foreshadowed 
in  them  1 


THE  FIRST  PASSOVER. 


Christus.  For  Zion’s  sake  I will  not 
hold  my  peace, 

And  for  Jerusalem’s  sake  I will  not 
rest 

Until  its  righteousness  be  as  a bright- 
ness, 

And  its  salvation  as  a lamp  that  burn- 
eth  ! 

Thou  shalt  be  called  no  longer  the 
Forsaken, 

Nor  any  more  thy  land,  the  Desolate. 
The  Lord  hath  sworn,  by  his  right 
hand  hath  sworn. 

And  by  his  arm  of  strength  : I will  no 
more 

Give  to  thine  enemies  thy  corn  as 
meat  ; 

The  sons  of  strangers  shall  not  drink 
thy  wine. 

Go  through,  go  through  the  gates  ! 
Prepare  a way 

Unto  the  people  ! Gather  out  the 
stones  ! 

Lift  up  a standard  for  the  people  ! 

A Priest.  Ah  ! 

These  are  seditious  words  ! 

Christus.  And  they  shall  call  them 
The  holy  people ; the  redeemed  of 
God! 

And  thou,  Jerusalem,  shalt  be  called 
Sought  out, 

A city  not  forsaken  ! 

A Pharisee  Is  not  this 

The  carpenter  Joseph’s  son?  Is  not 
his  mother 

Called  Mary?  and  his  brethren  and  his 
sisters 

Are  they  not  with  us?  Doth  he  make 
himself 

To  be  a Prophet? 

Christus.  No  man  is  a Prophet 
In  his  own  country,  and  among  his  kin. 
In  his  own  house  no  Prophet  is  accept- 
ed. 

I say  to  you,  in  the  land  of  Israel 
Were  many  widows  in  Elijah’s  day, 
When  for  three  years  and  more  the 
heavens  were  shut, 

And  a great  famine  was  throughout  the 
land  ; 

But  unto  no  one  was  Elijah  sent 
Save  to  Sarepta,  to  a city  of  Sidon, 

And  to  a woman  there  that  was  a wid- 
ow. 


21 

And  many  lepers  were  there  in  the  land 
Of  Israel,  in  the  time  of  Eliseus 
The  Prophet,  and  yet  none  of  them 
was  cleansed. 

Save  Naaman  the  Syrian  I 
A Priest.  Say  no  more  ! 

Thou  comest  here  into  our  Synagogue 
And  speakest  to  the  Elders  and  the 
Priests, 

As  if  the  very  mantle  of  Elijah 
Had  fallen  upon  thee  ! Art  thou  not 
ashamed  ? 

A Pharisee.  We  want  no  Prophets 
here  I Let  him  be  driven 
From  Synagogue  and  city  1 Let  him 
go 

And  prophesy  to  the  Samaritans  1 
An  Elder.  The  world  is  changed. 
We  Elders  are  as  nothing  I 
We  are  but  yesterdays,  that  have  no 
part 

Or  portion  in  to-day  I Dry  leaves  that 
rustle. 

That  make  a little  sound,  and  then  are 
dust  1 

A Pharisee.  A carpenter’s  appren- 
tice 1 a mechanic. 

Whom  we  have  seen  at  work  here  in 
the  town 

Day  after  day:  a stripling  without 
learning. 

Shall  he  pretend  to  unfold  the  Word  of 
God 

To  men  grown  old  in  study  of  the  Law  ? 
(Christus  is  thrust  out.) 


VI. 

THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE. 

Peter  and  Andrew,  mending 
their  nets. 

Peter.  Never  was  such  a marvellous 
draught  of  fishes 

Heard  of  in  Galilee  I The  market- 
places 

Both  of  Bethsaida  and  Capernaum 

Are  full  of  them  ! Yet  we  had  toiled 
all  night 

And  taken  nothing,  when  the  Master 
said  : 

Launch  out  into  the  deep,  and  cast  your 
nets ; 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


22 


And  doing  this,  we  caught  such  multi- 
tudes 

Our  nets  like  spiders’  webs  were  snapped 
asunder. 

And  with  the  draught  we  filled  two 
ships  so  full 

That  they  began  to  sink.  Then  I knelt 
down 

Amazed,  and  said:  O Lord,  depart 
from  me, 

I am  a sinful  man.  And  he  made  an- 
. swer : 

Simon,  fear  not ; henceforth  thou  shalt 
catch  men  ! 

What  was  the  meaning  of  those  words  ? 

A^idrew.  I know  not. 

But  here  is  Philip,  come  from  Naza- 
reth. 

He  hath  been  with  the  Master.  Tell 
us,  Philip, 

What  tidings  dost  thou  bring? 

Philip,  Most  wonderful  ! 

As  we  drew  near  to  Nain,  out  of  the 
gate 

Upon  a bier  was  carried  the  dead  body 
Of  a young  man,  his  mother’s  only  son. 
And  she  a widow,  who  with  lamentation 
Bewailed  her  loss,  and  the  much  people 
with  her  ; 

And  when  the  Master  saw  her  he  was 
filled 

With  pity  ; and  he  said  to  her  : Weep 
not  ! 

And  came  and  touched  the  bier,  and 
they  that  bare  it 

Stood  still ; and  then  he  said : Young 
man,  arise  ! 

And  he  that  had  been  dead  sat  up,  and 
soon 

Began  to  speak  ; and  he  delivered  him 
Unto  his  mother.  And  there  came  a 
fear 

On  all  the  people,  and  they  glorified 
The  Lord,  and  said,  rejoicing  : A 
great  Prophet 

Is  risen  up  among  us  ! and  the  Lord 
Hath  visited  his  people  ! 

■ Peter.  A great  Prophet  ? 

Ay,  greater  than  a Prophet  : greater 
even 

Than  John  the  Baptist  ! 

Philip.  _ Yet  the  Nazarenes 

Rejected  him. 

Peter.  The  Nazarenes  are  dogs  ! 


As  natural  brute  beasts,  they  growl  at 
things 

They  do  not  understand;  and  they 
shall  perish. 

Utterly  perish  in  their  own  corruption. 
The  Nazarenes  are  dogs  ! 

Philip.  They  drave  him  forth 

Out  of  their  Synagogue,  out  of  their 
city. 

And  would  have  cast  him  down  a pre- 
cipice. 

But,  passing  through  the  midst  of 
them,  he  vanished 
Out  of  their  hands. 

Peter.  Wells  are  they  without  water. 
Clouds  carried  with  a tempest,  unto 
whom 

The  mist  of  darkness  is  reserved  for- 
ever ! 

Philip.  Behold  he  cometh.  There  is 
one  man  with  him 
I am  amazed  to  see  ! 

A ndrew.  What  man  is  that  ? 

Philip.  Judas  Iscariot ; he  that 
cometh  last. 

Girt  with  a leathern  apron.  No  one 
knoweth 

His  history  ; but  the  rumor  of  him  is 
He  had  an  unclean  spirit  in  his  youth. 
It  hath  not  left  him  yet. 

Christus  (passing-).  Come  unto  me. 
All  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden. 
And  I will  give  you  rest  ! Come  unto 
me. 

And  take  my  yoke  upon  you  and  learn 
of  me. 

For  I am  meek,  and  I am  lowly  in 
heart. 

And  ye  shall  all  find  rest  unto  your 
souls  ! 

Philip.  O,  there  is  something  in  that 
voice  that  reaches 

The  innermost  recesses  of  my  spirit  ! 

I feel  that  it  might  say  unto  the  blind  : 
Receive  your  sight ! and  straightway 
they  would  see  ! 

I feel  that  it  might  say  unto  the  dead. 
Arise ! and  they  would  hear  it  and 
obey  ! 

Behold  he  beckons  to  us  ! 

Christus(toPeter  and  A ndrew).  Fol- 
low me  I 

Peter.  Master,  I will  leave  all  and 
follow  thee. 


THE  FIRST  PASSOVER. 


23 


VII. 

THE  DEMONIAC  OF  GADARA. 

A Gadarene.  He  hath  escaped, 
hath  plucked  his  chains  asunder, 

And  broken  his  fetters ; always  night 
and  day 

Is  in  the  mountains  here,  and  in  the 
tombs. 

Crying  aloud,  and  cutting  himself  with 
stones. 

Exceeding  fierce,  so  that  no  man  can 
tame  him  ! 

The  Dem07iiac  {fro77i  above,  miseen). 
O Aschmedai  ! O Aschmedai, 
have  pity  ! _ 

A Gadarene.  Listen  ! It  is  his 
voice  ! Go  warn  the  people 

Just  landing  from  the  lake  I 

The  Demoniac.  O Aschmedai ! 

Thou  angel  of  the  bottomless  pit,,  have 
pity  ! 

It  was  enough  to  hurl  King  Solomon, 

On  whom  be  peace  ! two  hundred 
leagues  away 

Into  the  country,  and  to  make  him 
scullion, 

In  the  kitchen  of  the  King  of  Masch- 
kemen  ! 

Why  dost  thou  hurl  me  here  among 
these  rocks, 

And  cut  me  with  these  stones  ? 

A Gadarene.  He  raves  and  mutters 

He  knows  not  what. 

The  Demoniac  {appearing  from  a 
toj7ib  among  the  rocks).  The  wild 
cock  Tarnegal 

Singeth  to  me,  and  bids  me  to  the  ban- 
quet. 

Where  all  the  Jews  shall  come  ; for 
they  have  slain 

Behemoth  the  great  ox,  who  daily 
cropped 

A thousand  hills  for  food,  and  at  a 
draught 

Drank  up  the  river  Jordan,  and  have 
slain 

The  huge  Leviathan,  and  stretched  his 
skin 

Upon  the  high  walls  of  Jerusalem, 

And  made  them  shine  from  one  end  of 
the  world 

Unto  the  other ; and  the  fowl  Barjuchne, 


Whose  outspread  wings  eclipse  the  sun, 
and  make 

Midnight  at  noon  o’er  all  the  conti- 
nents ! 

And  we  shall  drink  the  wine  of  Paradise 

From  Adam’s  cellars. 

A Gadarene.  O,  thou  unclean  spirit ! 

The  Demoniac  {hurlmg  down  a 
stotie).  'I'his  is  the  wonderful 
Barjuchne’s  egg. 

That  fell  out  of  her  nest,  and  broke  to 
pieces. 

And  swept  away  three  hundred  cedar- 
trees. 

And  threescore  villages  ! — Rabbi  Elie- 
zer. 

How  thou  didst  sin  there  in  that  sea- 
port town. 

When  thou  hadst  carried  safe  thy  chest 
of  silver 

Over  the  seven  rivers  for  her  sake  ! 

I too  have  sinned  beyond  the  reach  oL 
pardon. 

Ye  hills  and  mountains,  pray  for  mercy 
on  me  ! 

Ye  stars  and  planets,  pray  for  mercy  on 
me  ! 

Ye  sun  and  moon,  O pray  for  mercy  on 
me  ! 

(Christus  and  his  disciples  pass.) 

A Gadarene.  There  is  a man  here 
of  Decapolis, 

Who  hath  an  unclean  spirit ; so  that 
none 

Can  pass  this  way.  He  lives  among 
the  tombs 

Up  there  upon  the  cliffs,  and  hurls 
down  stones 

On  those  who  pass  beneath. 

Christus.  Come  out  of  him. 

Thou  unclean  spirit  ! 

The  Demo7iiac.  What  have  I to  do 

With  thee,  thou  Son  of  God?  Do 
not  torment  us. 

Christus.  What  is  thy  name  ? 

Demojiiac.  Legion  ; 

for  we  are  many. 

Cain,  the  first  murderer  ; and  the  King 
Belshazzar, 

And  Evil  Merodach  of  Babylon, 

And  Admatha,  the  death-cloud,  prince 
of  Persia : 

And  Aschmedai,  the  angel  of  the  pit. 


24 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


And  many  other  devils.  We  are 
Legion. 

Send  us  not  forth  beyond  Decnpolis  : 
Command  us  not  to  go  into  the  deep  ! 
There  is  a herd  of  swine  here  in  the 
pastures, 

Let  us  go  into  them. 

Christus.  Come  out  of  him, 

Thou  unclean  spirit  ! 

A Gadare7ie.  See,  how  stupefied. 
How  motionless  he  stands ! He  cries 
no  more  ; 

He  seems  bewildered  and  in  silence 
stares 

As  one  who,'  walking  in  his  sleep, 
awakes 

And  knows  not  where  he  is,  and  looks 
about  him, 

And  at  his  nakedness,  and  is  ashamed. 

The  De^noniac.  Why  am  I here 
alone  among  the  tombs  ? 

What  have  they  done  to  me,  that  I am 
naked  ? 

Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 

Christus.  Go  home  unto  thy  friends 
And  tell  them  how  great  things  the 
Lord  hath  done 

For  thee,  and  how  he  had  compassion 
on  thee  ! 

A Swineherd  {running).  The 
herds  ! the  herds ! O most  un- 
lucky day  ! 

They  were  all  feeding  quiet  in  the  sun, 
When  suddenly  they  started,  and  grew 
savage 

As  the  wild  boars  of  Tabor,  and  to- 
gether 

Rushed  down  a precipice  into  the  sea  ! 
They  are  all  drowned  ! 

Peter.  Thus  righteously  are  punished 
The  apostate  Jews,  that  eat  the  flesh 
of  swine, 

And  broth  of  such  abominable  things  ! 

Greeks  of  Gadara.  We  sacrifice  a 
sow  unto  Demeter 

At  the  beginning  of  harvest,  and  another 
To  Dionysus  at  the  vintage-time. 
Therefore  we  prize  our  herds  of  swine, 
and  count  them 

Not  as  upclean,  but  as  things  consecrate 
To  the  immortal  gods.  O great  magi- 
cian. 

Depart  out  of  our  coasts  ; let  us  alone. 
We  are  afraid  of  thee  ! 


Peter.  _ Let  us  depart ; 

For  they  that  sanctify  and  purify 
Themselves  in  gardens,  eating  flesh  of 
swine. 

And  the  abomination,  and  the  mouse, 
Shall  be  consumed  together,  saith  the 
Lord  ! 


VIII. 

TALITHA  CUMI. 

fairus  {at  the  feet  of  Christus).  O 
Master!  I entreat  thee  I I im- 
plore thee ! 

My  daughter  lieth  at  the  point  of  death  ; 

I pray  thee  come  and  lay  thy  hands 
upon  her. 

And  she  shall  live  ! 

Christus.  Who  was  it  touched 

my  garments? 

Simon  Peter.  Thou  seest  the  multi- 
tude that  throng  and  press  thee. 

And  sayest  thou  : Who  touched  me  ? 
’T  was  not  1. 

Christus.  Some  one  hath  touched 
my  garments  ; I perceive 

That  virtue  is  gone  out  of  me. 

A Wo7nan.  O Master  ! 

Forgive  me  ! For  I said  within  myself. 

If  I so  much  as  touch  his  garment’s 
hem, 

I shall  be  whole. 

Christus.  Be  of  good  comfort, 

daughter ! 

Thy  faith  hath  made  the  whole.  De- 
part in  peace. 

A Messenger  from  the  house.  Why 
troublest  thou  the  Master? 
Hearest  thou  not 

The  flute-players,  and  the  voices  of  the 
women 

Singing  their  lamentation  ? She  is 
dead  ! 

The  Minstrels  and  Mourners.  We 
have  girded  ourselves  with  sack-- 
cloth  I 

We  have  covered  our  heads  with  ashes  I 

For  our  young  men  die,  and  out 
maidens 

Swoon  in  the  streets  of  the  city ; 

And  into  their  mother’s  bosom 

I'hey  pour  out  their  souls  like  water  I 


THE  FIRST  PASSOVER. 


25 


Christus  {going  in).  Give  place. 
Why  make  ye  this  ado,  and 
weep? 

She  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth. 

The  Mother  [from  within).  Cruel 
death  ! 

To  take  away  from  me  this  tender 
blossom  ! 

To  take  away  my  dove,  my  lamb,  my 
darling  ! 

The  Minstrels  and  Mourners.  He 
hath  led  me  and  brought  into 
darkness, 

Like  the  dead  of  old  in  dark  places  ! 

He  hath  bent  his  bow,  and  hath  set 

Apart  as  a mark  for  his  arrow  ! ■ 

He  hath  covered  himself  with  a cloud. 

That  our  prayer  should  not  pass 
through  and  reach  him  ! 

The  Crowd.  He  stands  beside  her 
bed  ! He  takes  her  hand  ! 

Listen,  he  speaks  to  her  ! 

Christus  {within).  Maiden,  arise  ! 

The  Crowd.  See,  she  obeys  his 
voice  ! She  stirs  ! She  lives  ! 

Her  mother  holds  her  folded  in  her 
arms  ! 

O miracle  of  miracles  ! O marvel ! 


IX. 

THE  TOWER  OF  MAGDALA. 

Mary  Magdalene.  Companionless, 
unsatisfied,  forlorn,  • 

I sit  here  in  this  lonely  tower,  and  look 

Upon  the  lake  below  me,  and  the  hills 

That  swoon  with  heat,  and  see  as  in  a 
vision 

All  my  past  life  unroll  itself  before  me. 

The  princes  and  the  merchants  come 
to  me. 

Merchants  of  Tyre  and  Princes  of 
Damascus, 

And  pass,  and  disappear,  and  are  no 
more  : 

But  leave  behind  their  merchandise 
and  jewels, 

Their  perfumes,  and  their  gold,  and 
their  disgust. 

I loathe  them,  and  the  very  memory 
of  them 


Is  unto  me,  as  thought  of  food  to  one 
Cloyed  with  the  luscious  figs  of  Dal- 
manutha  ! 

What  if  hereafter,  in  the  long  hereafter 
Of  endless  joy  or  pain,  or  joy  in  pain, 

It  were  my  punishment  to  be  with 
them 

Grown  hideous  and  decrepit  in  their 
sins. 

And  hear  them  say  : Thou  that  hast 
brought  us  here. 

Be  unto  us  as  thou  hast  been  of  old  ! 

I look  upon  this  raiment  that  I wear, 
These  silks,  and  these  embroideries, 
and  they  seem 

Only  as  cerements  wrapped  about  my 
limbs  ! 

I look  upon  these  rings  thick  set  with 
pearls 

And  emerald  and  amethyst  and  jasper. 
And  they  are  burning  coals  upon  my 
flesh  ! 

This  serpent  on  my  wrist  becomes 
alive  ! 

Away,  thou  viper  ! and  away,  ye  gar- 
lands 

Whose  odors  bring  the  swift  remem- 
brance back 

Of  the  unhallowed  revels  in  these 
chambers  ! 

But  yesterday,  — and  yet  it  seems  to 
me 

Something  remote,  like  a pathetic  song 
Sung  long  ago  by  minstrels  in  the 
street,  — 

But  yesterday,  as  from  this  tower  I 
gazed. 

Over  the  olive  and  the  walnut  trees 
Upon  the  lake  and  the  white  ships,  and 
wondered 

Whither  and  whence  they  steered,  and 
who  was  in  them, 

A fisher’s  boat  drew  near  the  landing- 
place 

Under  the  oleanders,  and  the  people 
Came  up  from  it,  and  passed  beneath 
the  tower. 

Close  under  me.  In  front  of  them,  as 
leader. 

Walked  one  of  royal  aspect,  clothed  in 
white. 

Who  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  looked  at 
me, 


26 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


And  all  at  once  the  air  seemed  filled' 
and  living 

With  a mysterious  power,  that  streamed 
from  him, 

And  overflowed  me  with  an  atmos- 
phere 

Of  light  and  love.  As  one  entranced  I 
stood, 

And  when  I woke  again,  lo ! he  was 
gone ; 

So  that  I said  : Perhaps  it  is  a dream. 

But  from  that  very  hour  the  seven 
demons 

That  had  their  habitation  in  this  body 

Which  men  call  beautiful,  departed 
from  me  ! 

This  morning,  when  the  first  gleam  of 
the  dawn 

Made  Lebanon  a glory  in  the  air, 

And  all  below  was  darkness,  I beheld 

An  angel,  or  a spirit  glorified, 

With  wind-tossed  garments  walking  on 
the  lake. 

The  face  I could  not  see,  but  I dis- 
tinguished 

The  attitude  and  gesture,  and  I knew 

’T  was  he  that  healed  me.  And  the 
gusty  wind 

Brought  to  mine  ears  a voice,  which 
seemed  to  say  : 

Be  of  good  cheer  ! ’T  is  I ! Be  not 
afraid  ! 

And  from  the  darkness,  scarcely  heard, 
the  answer : 

If  it  be  thou,  bid  me  come  unto  thee 

Upon  the  water  ! And  the  voice  said  : 
Come  ! 

And  then  I heard  a cry  of  fear  : Lord, 
save  me  ! 

As  of  a drowning  man.  And  then  the 
voice  : 

Why  didst  thou  doubt,  O thou  of  little 
faith  ! 

At  this  all  vanished,  and  the  wind  was 
hushed. 

And  the  great  sun  came  up  above  the 
hills, 

And  the  swift-flying  vapors  hid  them- 
selves 

In  caverns  among  the  rocks  ! O,  I 
must  find  him 

And  follow  him,  and  be  with  him  for- 
ever ! 


Thou  box  of  alabaster,  in  whose  walls 

The  souls  of  flowers  lie  pent,  the  pre- 
. cious  balm 

And  spikenard  of  Arabian  farms,  the 
spirits 

Of  aromatic  herbs,  ethereal  natures 

Nursed  by  the  sun  and  dew,  not  all 
unworthy 

To  bathe  his  consecrated  feet,  whose 
step 

Makes  every  threshold  holy  that  he 
crosses ; 

Let  us  go  forth  upon  our  pilgrimage, 

Thou  and  I only  ! Let  us  search  for 
him 

Until  we  find  him,  and  pour  out  our 
souls 

Before  his  feet,  till  all  that ’s  left  of 
us 

Shall  be  the  broken  caskets,  that  once 
held  us  ! 


X. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  SIMON  THE 
PHARISEE. 

A Gtiest  {at  table).  Are  ye  deceived  ? 
Have  any  of  the  Rulers 

Believed  on  him?  or  do  they  know  in- 
deed 

This  man  to  be  the  very  Christ?  How- 
beit 

We  know  whence  thfs  man  is,  but 
when  the  Christ 

Shall  come,  none  knoweth  whence  he 

Chrishis.  Whereunto  shall  I liken, 
then,  the  men 

Of  this  generation  ? and  what  are  they 

■ 

They  are  like  children  sitting  in  the 
markets. 

And  calling  unto  one  another,  say- 
ing : 

We  have  piped  unto  you,  and  ye  have 
not  danced  ; 

We  have  mourned  unto  you,  and  ye 
have  not  wept ! 

This  say  I unto  you,  for  John  the 
Baptist 

Came  neither  eating  bread  nor  drink- 
ing wine  ; 


THE  FIRST  PASSOVER. 


27 


Ye  say  he  hath  a devil.  The  Son  of 
Man 

Eating  and  drinking  cometh,  and  ye 
say : 

Behold  a gluttonous  man,  and  a wine- 
bibber  ; 

Behold  a friend  of  publicans  and  sin- 
ners ! 

A Guest  {aside  to  Simon).  Who  is 
that  woman  yonder,  gliding  in 

So  silently  behind  him  ? 

Simon.  It  is  Mary, 

Who  dwelleth  in  the  Tower  of  Magdala. 

The  Guest.  See,  how  she  kneels 
there  weeping,  and  her  tears 

Fall  on  his  feet ; and  her  long,  golden 
hair 

Waves  to  and  fro  and  wipes  them  dry 
again. 

And  now  she  kisses  them,  and  from  a 
box 

Of  alabaster  is  anointing  them 

With  precious  ointment,  filling  all  the 
house 

With  its  sweet  odor ! 

Simon  (aside).  O,  this  man,  for- 
sooth 

Were  he  indeed  a Prophet,  would  have 
known 

Who  and  what  manner  of  woman  this 
may  be 

That  toucheth  him  ! would  know  she 
is  a sinner ! 

Christus.  Simon,  somewhat  have  I 
to  say  to  thee. 

Simon.  Master,  say  on. 

Christus.  A certain  creditor 


Had  once  two  debtors ; and  the  one  of 
them 

Owed  him  five  hundred  pence  ; the 
other,  fifty. 

They  having  naught  to  pay  withal,  he 
frankly 

Forgave  them  both.  Now  tell  me 
which  of  them 

Will  love  him  most? 

Simon.  He,  I suppose,  to  whom 

He  most  forgave. 

Christus.  Yea,  thou  hast  rightly 
judged. 

Seest  thou  this  woman?  When  thine 
house  I entered. 

Thou  gavest  me  no  water  for  my  feet. 

But  she  hath  washed  them  with  her 
tears,  and  wiped  them 

With  her  own  hair ! Thou  gavest  me 
no  kiss ; 

This  woman  hath  not  ceased,  since  I 
came  in. 

To  kiss  my  feet  ! My  head  with  oil 
•didst  thou 

Anoint  not ; but  this  woman  hath 
anointed 

My  feet  with  ointment.  Hence  I say 
to  thee. 

Her  sins,  which  have  been  many,  are 
forgiven. 

For  she  loved  much. 

The  Guests.  O,  who,  then,  is 

this  man 

That  pardoneth  also  sins  without  atone- 
ment? 

Christus.  Woman,  thy  faith  hath 
saved  thee  ! Go  in  peace  ! 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 

THE  SECOND  PASSOVER. 


THE  SECOND  PASSOVER. 


BEFORE  THE  GATES  OF 
MACHiERUS. 

Manahe^n.  Welcome,  O wilderness, 
and  welcome,  night 
And  solitude,  and  ye  swift-flying  stars 
That  drift  with  golden  sands  the  barren 
heavens, 

Welcome  once  more  ! The  Angels  of 
the  Wind 

Hasten  across  the  desert  to  receive  me  ; 
And  sweeter  than  men’s  voices  are  to 
me 

The  voices  of  these  solitudes ; the  sound 
Of  unseen  rivulets,  and  the  far-off  cry 
Of  bitterns  in  the  reeds  of  water-pools. 
And  lo  ! above  me,  like  the  Prophet’s 
arrow 

Shot  from  the  eastern  window,  high  in 
air 

The  clamorous  cranes  go  singing 
through  the  night. 

0 ye  mysterious  pilgrims  of  the  air. 
Would  I had  wings  that  I might  follow 

you  ! 

1 look  forth  from  these  mountains,  and 

behold 

The  omnipotent  and  omnipresent  night. 
Mysterious  as  the  future  and  the  fate 
That  hangs  o’er  all  men’s  lives  ! I see 
beneath  me 

The  desert  stretching  to  the  Dead  Sea 
shore. 

And  westward,  faint  and  far  away,  the 
glimmer 

Of  torches  on  Mount  Olivet,  announ- 
cing 

The  rising  of  the  Moon  of  Passover. 


Like  a great  cross  it  seems,  on  which 
suspended. 

With  head  bowed  down  in  agony,  I 
see 

A human  figure  ! Hide,  O merciful 
heaven. 

The  awful  apparition  from  my  sight ! 

And  thou,  Machcerus,  lifting  high  and 
black 

Thy  dreadful  walls  against  the  rising 
moon. 

Haunted  by  demons  and  by  apparitions, 

Lilith,  and  Jezerhara,  and  Bedargon, 

How  grim  thou  showest  in  the  uncer- 
tain light, 

A palace  and  a prison,  where  King 
Herod 

Feasts  with  Herodlas,  while  the  Bap- 
tist John 

Fasts,  and  consumes  his  unavailing  life  1 

And  in  thy  court-yard  grows  the  un- 
tithed rue. 

Huge  as  the  olives  of  Gethsemane, 

And  ancient  as  the  terebinth  of  Hebron, 

Coeval  with  the  world.  Would  that  its 
leaves 

Medicinal  could  purge  thee  of  the  de- 
mons. 

That  now  possess  thee,  and  the  cun- 
ning fox 

That  burrovvs  in  thy  walls,  contriving 
mischief  1 

{Music  is  heard from  within^ 

Angels  of  God ! Sandalphon,  thou 
that  weavest 

The  prayers  of  men  into  immortal  gar- 
lands. 

And  thou,  Metatron,  who  dost  gather 
up 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


Their  songs,  and  bear  them  to  the 
gates  of  heaven, 

Now  gather  up  together  in  your  hands 

The  prayers  that  fill  this  prison,  and 
the  songs 

That  echo  from  the  ceiling  of  this 
palace. 

And  lay  them  side  by  side  before  God’s 
feet ! 

{He  enters  the  castle.) 


II. 

HEROD’S  BANQUET-HALL. 

Manahem.  Thou  hast  sent  for  me, 
O King,  and  I am  here. 

Herod.  Who  art  thou  ? 

Manahem.  Manahem, 

the  Essenian. 

Herod.  I recognize  thy  features,  but 
what  mean 

These  torn  and  faded  garments?  On 
thy  road 

Have  demons  crowded  thee,  and  rubbed 
against  thee. 

And  given  thee  weary  knees  ? A cup 
of  wine ! 

Manahem.  The  Essenians  drink  no 
wine. 

Herod.  What  wilt  thou,  then? 

Manahejn.  Nothing. 

Herod.  N ot  even  a cup  of  water  ? 

Manahem.  Nothing. 

Why  hast  thou  sent  for  me  ? 

Herod.  Dost  thou  remember 

One  day  when  I,  a school-boy  in  the 
streets 

Of  the  great  city,  met  thee  on  my 
way 

To  school,  and  thou  didst  say  to  me  : 
Hereafter 

Thou  shalt  be  King? 

Manahevt.  _ Yea,  I remember  it. 

Herod.  Thinking  thou  didst  not 
know  me,  I replied  : 

I am  of  humble  birth ; whereat,  thou, 
smiling. 

Didst  smite  me  with  thy  hand,  and 
saidst  again  : 

Thou  shalt  be  King;  and  let  the 
friendly  blows 


That  Manahem  hath  given  thee  on  this 
day 

Remind  thee  of  the  fickleness  of  for- 
tune. 

Manahem.  What  more  ? 

Herod.  No  more. 

Ma7iahem.  Yea,  for  I said  to  thee  : 
It  shall  be  well  with  thee  if  thou  love 
justice 

And  clemency  towards  thy  fellow-men. 
Hast  thou  done  this,  O King? 

Herod.  Go,  ask  my  people. 

Manahem.  And  then,  foreseeing  all 
thy  life,  I added  : 

But  these  thou  wilt  forget ; and  at  the 
end 

Of  life  the  Lord  will  punish  thee. 

Herod.  The  end ! 

When  will  that  come  ? Forthisisent 
to  thee. 

How  long  shall  I still  reign?  Thou 
dost  not  answer ! 

Speak  ! shall  I reign  ten  years? 

Manahem.  Thou  shalt  reign  twenty. 
Nay,  thirty  years.  I cannot  name  the 
end. 

Herod.  Thirty  ? I thank  thee,  good 
Essenian  ! 

This  is  my  birthday,  and  a happier  one 
Was  never  mine.  We  hold  a banquet 
here. 

See,  yonder  are  Herodias  and  her 
daughter. 

Maftahem  {aside).  ’T  is  said  that 
devils  sometimes  take  the  shape 
Of  ministering  angels,  clothed  with 
air. 

That  they  may  be  inhabitants  of  earth, 
And  lead  man  to  destruction.  Such 
are  these. 

Herod.  Knowest  thou  John  the 
. Baptist  ? 

Manahem.  Yea,  I know  him  ; 
Who  knows  him  not  ? 

Herod.  Know,  then, 

this  John  the  Baptist 
Said  that  it  was  not  lawful  I should 
~ marry 

My  brother  Philip’s  wife,  and  John  the 
Baptist 

Is  here  in  prison.  In  my  father’s  time 
Matthias  Margaloth  was  put  to  death 
For  tearing  the  golden  eagle  from  its 
station 


THE  SECOND  PASSOVER. 


33 


Above  the  Temple  Gate, — a slighter 
crime 

Than  John  is  guilty  of.  These  things 
are  warnings 

To  intermeddlers  not  to  play  with 
eagles, 

Living  or  dead.  I think  the  Essenians 
Are  wiser,  or  more  wary,  are  they 
not? 

Manahem.  The  Essenians  do  not 
marry. 

Herod.  Thou  hast  given 

My  words  a meaning  foreign  to  my 
thought. 

Manahem.  Let  me  go  hence,  O 
King ! 

Herod.  Stay  yet  awhile. 

And  see  the  daughter  of  Herodias 
dance. 

Cleopatra  of  Jerusalem,  my  mother, 

In  her  best  days,  was  not  more  beau- 
tiful. 

(Music.  The  Daughter  of  Hero- 
dias dances.') 

Herod.  O,  what  was  Miriam  dan- 
cing with  her  timbrel. 

Compared  to  this  one  ? 

Manahem  (aside).  O thou  Angel  of 
Death, 

Dancing  at  funerals  among  the  women. 
When  men  bear  out  the  dead  ! The 
air  is  hot 

And  stifles  me  ! O for  a breath  of  air ! 
Bid  me  .depart,  O King  ! 

Herod.  Not  yet.  Come  hither, 
Salome,  thou  enchantress  ! Ask  of  me 
Whate’er  thou  wilt ; and  even  unto  the 
half 

Of  all  my  kingdom,  I will  give  it  thee, 
As  the  Lord  liveth  ! 

Daughter  of  Herodias  (kneeling). 
Give  me  here  the  head 
Of  John  the  Baptist  on  this  silver 
charger ! 

Herod.  Not  that,  dear  child  ! I 
dare  not ; for  the  people 
Regard  John  as  a prophet. 

Dajighter  of  Herodias.  Thou  hast 
sworn  it. 

Herod.  F or  mine  oath’s  sake,  then. 
Send  unto  the  prison  : 

Let  him  die  quickly.  O accursed  oath  ! 

Manahem.  Bid  me  depart,  O King  ! 

3 


Herod.  Good  Manahem 

Give  me  thy  hand.  I love  the  Esseni- 
ans. 

He ’s  gone  and  hears  me  not  ! The 
guests  are  dumb. 

Awaiting  the  pale  face,  the  silent  wit- 
ness. 

The  lamps  flare  ; and  the  curtains  of 
the  doorways 

Wave  to  and  fro  as  if  a ghost  were 
passing ! 

Strengthen  my  heart,  red  wine  of  Asca- 
lon  ! 

III. 

UNDER  THE  WALLS  OF 
MACHiERUS. 

Manahem  (rushing  out).  Away  from 
this  Palace  of  sin  ! 

The  demons,  the  terrible  powers 
Of  the  air,  that  haunt  its  towers 
And  hide  in  its  water-spouts. 

Deafen  me  with  the  din 

Of  their  laughter  and  Jheir  shouts 

For  the  crimes  that  are  done  within  ! 

Sink  back  into  the  earth, 

Or  vanish  into  the  air. 

Thou  castle  of  despair  ! 

Let  it  all  be  but  a dream 
Of  the  things  of  monstrous  birth, 

Of  the  things  that  only  seem  ! 

White  Angel  of  the  Moon, 

Onafiel ! be  my  guide 
Out  of  this  hateful  place 
Of  sm  and  death,  nor  hide 
In  yon  black  cloud  too  soon 
Thy  pale  and  tranquil  face  ! 

(A  trumpet  is  blown  from  the  walls.) 
Hark  ! hark  ! It  is  the  breath 
Of  the  trump  of  doom  and  death, 

From  the  battlements  overhead 
Like  a burden  of  sorrow  cast 
On  the  midnight  and  the  blast, 

A wailing  for  the  dead. 

That  the  gusts  drop  and  uplift ! 

O Herod,  thy  vengeance  is  swift  1 
O Herodias,  thou  hast  been 
The  demon,  the  evil  thing, 

That  in  place  of  Esther  the  Queen, 

In  place  of  the  lawful  bride. 


34 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


Hast  lain  at  night  by  the  side 
Of  Ahasiierus  the  king  ! 

{The  trumpet  again.') 

The  Prophet  of  God  is  dead  I 
At  a drunken  monarch’s  call, 

At  a dancing-woman’s  beck, 

Tliey  have  severed  that  stubborn  neck, 
And  into  the  banquet-hall 
Are  bearing  the  ghastly  head  ! 

{A  body  is  thrown  from  the  tower.) 

A torch  of  lurid  red 

Lights  the  window  with  its  glow  ; 

And  a white  mass  as  of  snow 
Is  hurled  into  the  abyss 
Of  the  black  precipice. 

That  yawns  for  it  below  ! 

O hand  of  the  Most  High, 

O hand  of  Adonai  ! 

Bury  it,  hide  it  away 

From  the  birds  and  beasts  of  prey, 

And  the  eyes  of  the  homicide,  - 
More  pitiless  than  they. 

As  thou  didst  bury  of  yore 
The  body  of  him  that  died 
On  the  mountain  of  Peor  ! 

Even  now  I behold  a sign, 

A threatening  of  wrath  divine, 

A watery,  wandering  star. 

Through  whose  streaming  hair,  and  the 
white 

Unfolding  garments  of  light. 

That  trail  behind  it  afar. 

The  constellations  shine  ! 

And  the  whiteness  and  brightness  ap- 
pear 

Like  the  Angel  bearing  the  Seer  ^ 

By  the  hair  of  his  head,  in  the  might 
And  rush  of  his  vehement  flight. 

And  I listen  until  I hear 
From  fathomless  depths  of  the  sky 
The  voice  of  his  prophecy 
Sounding  louder  and  more  near  ! 

Malediction  ! malediction  ! 

May  the  lightnings  of  heaven  fall 
On  palace  and  prison  wall. 

And  their  desolation  be 
As  the  day  of  fear  and  affliction. 

As  the  day  of  anguish  arid  ire. 

With  the  burning  and  fuel  of  fire. 

In  the  Valley  of  the  Sea  ! 


IV. 

NICODEMUS  AT  NIGHT. 

Nicodemus.  The  streets  are  silent. 
The  dark  houses  seem 

Like  sepulchres,  in  which  the  sleepers 
lie 

Wrapped  in  their  shrouds,  and  for  the 
moment  dead. 

The  lamps  are  all  extinguished ; only 

Burns  steadily,  and  from  the  door  its 
light 

Lies  like  a shining  gate  across  the 
street. 

He  waits  for  me.  Ah,  should  this  be 
at  last 

The  long-expected  Christ ! I see  him 
there 

Sitting  alone,  deep -buried  in  his 
thought. 

As  if  the  weight  of  all  the  world  were 
resting 

Upon  him,  and  thus  bowed  him  down. 
O Rabbi, 

We  know  thou  art  a Teacher  come  from 
God, 

For  no  man  can  perform  the  miracles 

Thou  dost  perform,  except  the  Lord  be 
with  him. 

Thou  art  a Prophet,  sent  here  to  pro- 
claim 

The  Kingdom  of  the  Lord.  Behold  in 
me 

A Ruler  of  the  Jews,  who  long  have 
waited 

The  coming  of  that  kingdom.  Tell  me 
of  it. 

Christus.  Verily,  verily  I say  unto 
thee. 

Except  a man  be  born  again,  he  cannot 

Behold  the  Kingdom  of  God  ! 

Nicodemus.  Be  born  again  ? 

How  can  a man  be  born  when  he  is 
old? 

Say,  can  he  enter  for  a second  time 

Into  his  mother’s  womb,  and  so  be 
born  ? 

Christus.  Verily  I say  unto  thee, 
except 

A man  be  born  of  water  and  the  spirit. 

He  cannot  enter  into  the  Kingdom  of 
God. 


THE  SECOND  PASSOVER. 


35 


For  that  which  of  the  flesh  is  born,  is 
flesh  ; 

And  that  which  of  the  spirit  is  born,  is 
spirit. 

Nicodemus.  We  Israelites  from  the 
Primeval  Man 

Adam  Ahelion  derive  our  bodies,; 

Our  souls  are  breathings  of  the  Holy 
Ghost. 

No  more  than  this  we  know,  or  need 
to  know. 

Christus.  Then  marvel  not,  that  I 
said  unto  thee 
Ye  must  be  born  again. 

Nicodemus.  The  mystery 

Of  birth  and  death  we  cannot  compre- 
hend. 

Christus.  The  wind  bloweth  where 
it  listeth,  and  we  hear 
The  sound  thereof,  but  know  not 
whence  it  cometh. 

Nor  whither  it  goeth.  So  is  every  one 
Born  of  the  spirit ! 

Nicodemus  {aside).  How  can  these 
things  be  ? 

He  seems  to  speak  of  some  vague  realm 
of  shadows, 

Some  unsubstantial  kingdom  of  the  air  ! 
It  is  not  this  the  Jews  are  waiting 
for, 

N or  can  this  be  the  Christ,  the  Son  of 
David, 

Who  shall  deliver  us  ! 

Christus.  Art  thou  a master 

Of  Israel,  and  knowest  not  these 
things  ? 

We  speak  that  we  do  know,  and  testify 
That  we  have  seen,  and  ye  will  not  re- 
ceive 

Our  witness.  If  I tell  you  earthly 
things. 

And  ye  believe  not,  how  shall  ye  be- 
lieve. 

If  I should  tell  you  of  things  heavenly  ? 
And  no  man  hath  ascended  up  to  heav- 
en, 

But  he  alone  that  first  came  down  from 
heaven, 

Even  the  Son  of  Man  which  is-  in 
heaven  ! 

Nicodemus  {aside).  This  is  a 
dreamer  of  dreams  : a visionary. 
Whose  brain  is  overtasked,  until  he 
deems 


The  unseen  world  to  be  a thing  sub- 
stantial. 

And  this  we  live  in  an  unreal  vision  ! 
And  yet  his  presence  fascinates  and 
fills  me 

With  wonder,  and  I feel  myself  exalted 
Into  a higher  region,  and  become 
Myself  in  part  a dreamer  of  his  dreams 
A seer  of  his  visions  ! 

Christus.  And  as  Moses 

Uplifted  the  serpent  in  the  wilderness 
So  must  the  Son  of  Man  be  lifted 
up  : 

That  whosoever  shall  believe  in  him 
Shall  perish  not,  but  have  eternal  life. 
He  that  believes  in  him  is  not  con- 
demned ; 

He  that  believes  not,  is  condemned 
already. 

Nicodemus  {aside).  He  speaketh 
like  a Prophet  of  the  Lord  ! 

Christus.  This  is  the  condemnation  ; 
that  the  light 

Is  come  into  the  world,  and  men  loved 
darkness 

Rather  than  light,  because  their  deeds 
are  evil  ! 

Nicodemus  {aside).  Of  me  he  speak- 
eth ! He  reproveth  me 
Because  I come  by  night  to  question 
him  ! 

Christus.  F or  every  one  that  doeth 
evil  deeds 

Hateth  the  light,  nor  cometh  to  the 
light. 

Lest  he  should  be  reproved. 

Nicodemtis  {aside).  Alas,  how  truly 
He  readeth  what  is  passing  in  my 
heart ! 

Christus.  But  he  that  doeth  truth 
conies  to  the  light. 

So  that  his  deeds  may  be  made  mani- 
fest. 

That  they  are  wrought  in  God. 

Nicodemus.  Alas  ! alas  ! 


V. 

BLIND  BARTIMEUS. 

Bartimeus.  Be  not  impatient,  Chil- 
ion  ; it  is  pleasant 

To  sit  here  in  the  shadow  of  the  Vails 


36 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


Under  the  palms,  and  hear  the  hum  of 
bees, 

And  rumor  of  voices  passing  to  and  fro, 

And  drowsy  bells  of  caravans  on  their 
way 

To  Sidon  or  Damascus.  This  is  still 

The  City  of  Palms,  and  yet  the  walls 
thou  seest 

Are  not  the  old  walls,  not  the  walls 
where  Rahab 

Hid  the  two  spies,  and  let  them  down 
by  cords 

Out  of  the  window,  when  the  gates 
were  shut, 

And  it  was  dark.  Those  walls  were 
overthrown 

When  Joshua’s  army  shouted,  and  the 
priests 

Blew  with  their  seven  trumpets. 

Chilion.  When  was  that  ? 

Bartimeus.  O,  my  sweet  rose  of 
Jericho,  I know  not. 

Hundreds  of  years  ago.  And  over 
there 

Beyond  the  river,  the  great  prophet 
Elijah 

Was  taken  by  a whirlwind  up  to 
heaven 

In  chariot  of  fire,  with  fiery  horses. 

That  is  the  plain  of  Moab  ; and  beyond 
it 

Rise  the  blue  summits  of  Mount 
Abarim, 

Nebo  and  Pisgahand  Peor,  where  Mo- 
ses 

Died,  whom  the  Lord  knew  face  to 
face,  and  whom 

He  buried  in  a valley,  and  no  man 

Knows  of  his  sepulchre  unto  this  day. 

Chilion.  Would  thou  couldst  see 
these  places,  as  I see  them. 

Bartimetis.  I have  not  seen  a glim- 
mer of  the  light 

Since  thou  wast  born.  I never  saw 
thy  face, 

And  yet  I seem  to  see  it ; and  one  day 

Perhaps  shall  see  it ; for  there  is  a 
Prophet 

In  Galilee,  the  Messiah,  the  Son  of 
David, 

Who  heals  the  blind,  if  I could  only 
find  him. 

I hear  the  sound  of  many  feet  ap- 
•proaching 


And  voices,  like  the  murmur  of  a 
crowd  ! 

What  seest  thou  ? 

Chilion.  A young  man  clad  in  white 
Is  coming  through  the  gateway,  and  a 
crowd 

Of  people  follow. 

Bartimeus.  Can  it  be  the  Prophet  ? 

0 neighbors,  tell  me  who  it  is  that 

passes ! 

One  of  the  Crowd.  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 

BartimeTis  {crying).  O Son  of  Da- 
vid ! 

Have  mercy  on  me  ! 

Many  of  the  Crowd.  Peace,  Blind 
Bartimeus  ! 

Do  not  disturb  the  Master. 

Bartimeus  {crying  more  vehement- 
ly). Son  of  David, 

Have  mercy  on  me  ! 

One  of  the  Crowd.  See,  the  Master 
Stops. 

Be  of  good  comfort ; rise,  he  calleth 
thee  ! 

Bartimeiis  {casting  away  his  cloak). 
Chilion  ! good  neighbors  ! lead 
me  on. 

Christus.  What  wilt  thou 

That  I should  do  to  thee  ? 

Bartimeus.  Good  Lord  ! my  sight  — 
That  I receive  my  sight  ! 

Christus.  Receive  thy  sight  I 

Thy  faith  hath  made  thee  whole  ! 

The  Crowd.  He  sees  again  ! 

(Christus  passes  on.  The  cro^vd gath- 
ers round  Bartimeus.) 

Bartimeus.  I see  again  ; but  sight 
bewilders  me  ! 

Like  a remembered  dream,  familiar 
things 

Comeback  to  me.  I see  the  tender  sky 
Above  me,  see  the  trees,  the  city  walls. 
And  the  old  gateway,  through  whose 
echoing  arch 

1 groped  so  many  years  ; and  you,  my 

neighbors ; 

But  know  you  by  your  friendly  voices 
only. 

How  beautiful  the  world  is  ! and  how 
wide  ! 

O,  I am  miles  away,  if  I but  look  ! 
Where  art  thou,  Chilion? 

Chilion.  Father,  I am  here. 


THE  SECOND  PASSOVER. 


37 


Bartimeus.  O let  me  gaze  upon  thy 
face,  dear  child  ! 

For  I have  only  seen  thee  with  my 
hands ! 

How  beautiful  thou  art ! I should  have 
known  thee  ; 

Thou  hast  her  eyes  whom  we  shall  see 
hereafter  ! 

O God  of  Abraham  ! Elion  ! Adonai ! 

Who  art  thyself  a Father,  pardon  me 

If  for  a moment  I have  thee  postponed 

To  the  affections  and  the  thoughts  of 
earth. 

Thee,  and  the  adoration  that  I owe 
thee. 

When  by  thy  power  alone  these  dark- 
ened eyes 

Have  been  unsealed  again  to  see  thy 
light  ! 


VI. 


JACOB’S  WELL. 

A Samaritan  W oman.  The  sun  is 
hot  : and  the  dry  east-wind  blow- 
ing 

Fills  all  the  air  with  dust.  The  birds 
are  silent ; 

Even  the  little  fieldfares  in  the  corn 

Nt  longer  twitter ; only  the  grasshop- 
pers 

Sing  their  incessant  song  of  sun  and 
summer. 

I wonder  who  those  strangers  were  I 
met 

Going  into  the  city  ? Galileans 

They  seemed  to  me  in  speaking,  when 
they  asked 

The  short  way  to  the  market-place. 
Perhaps 

They  are  fishermen  from  the  lake ; or 
travellers. 

Looking  to  find  the  inn.  And  here  is 
some  one 

Sitting  beside  the  well ; another  stran- 
ger : 

A Galilean  also  by  his  looks. 

What  can  so  many  Jews  be  doing  here 

Together  in  Samaria.^  Are  they  going 

Up  to  Jerusalem  to  the  Passover? 

Our  Passover  is  better  here  at  Sychem, 

For  here  is  Ebal ; here  is  Gerizim, 


The  mountain  where  our  father  Abra- 
ham 

Went  up  to  offer  Isaac  ; here  the  tomb 

Of  Joseph, — for  they  brought  his 
bones  from  Egypt 

And  buried  them  in  this  land,  and  it  is 
holy. 

Christus.  Give  me  to  drink. 

Samaritan  M^oman.  How  can  it  be 
that  thou. 

Being  a Jew,  askest  to  drink  of  me 

Which  am  a woman  of  Samaria? 

You  Jews  despise  us  ; have  no  dealings 
with  us ; 

Make  us  a by-word  ; call  us  in  derision 

The  silly  folk  of  Sychar.  Sir,  how  is  it 

Thou  askest  drink  of  me  ? 

Christus.  If  thou  hadst  known 

The  gift  of  God,  and  who  it  is  that 
sayeth 

Give  me  to  drink,  thou  wouldst  have 
asked  of  him ; 

He  would  have  given  thee  the  living 
water. 

Samaritan  Woman.  Sir,  thou  hast 
naught  to  draw  with,  and  the 
well 

Is  deep ! Whence  hast  thou  living 
water  ? 

Say,  art  thou  greater  than  our  father 
Jacob, 

Which  gave  this  well  to  us,  and  drank 
thereof 

Himself,  and  all  his  children,  and  his 
cattle? 

Christus.  Ah,  whosoever  drinketh  of 
this  water 

Shall  thirst  again ; but  whosoever 
drinketh 

The  water  I shall  give  him  shall  not 
thirst 

Forevermore,  for  it  shall  be  within  him 
A well  of  living  water,  springing  up 
Into  life  everlasting. 

Samaritan  Woman.  Every  day 
I must  go  to  and  fro,  in  heat  and  col«L 
And  I am  weary.  Give  me  of  this 
water, 

That  I may  thirst  not,  nor  com.e  here 
to  draw. 

Christus.  Go  call  thy  husband,  wo- 
man, and  come  hither. 

Samaritan  Woman.  I have  no  hus- 
band, Sir. 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


Christus.  Thou  hast  well  said 

I have  no  husband.  Thou  hast  had 
five  husbands ; 

And  he  whom  now  thou  hast  is  not  thy 
husband. 

Samaritan  Woman.  Surely  thou 
art  a Prophet,  for  thou  readest 
The  hidden  things  of  life  ! Our  fa- 
thers worshipped 

Upon  this  mountain  Gerizim  ; and  ye  say 
The  only  place  in  which  men  ought  to 
worship 

Is  at  Jerusalem. 

Christus.  Believe  me,  woman, 

The  hour  is  coming,  when  ye  neither 
shall 

Upon  this  mount,  nor  at  Jerusalem^,, 
Worship  the  Father;  for  the  hour  is 
coming, 

And  is  now  come,  when  the  true  wor- 
shippers 

Shall  worship  the  Father  in  spirit  and 
in  truth  ! 

The  F ather  seeketh  such  to  worship  him. 
God  is  a spirit ; and  they  that  worship 
him 

Mu.st  worship  him  in  spirit  and  in  truth. 

Sa?naritan  Woman.  Master,  I know 
that  the  Messiah  cometh. 

Which  is  called  Christ  ; and  he  will 
tell  us  all  things. 

Christus.  I that  speak  unto  thee  am 
he  ! 

The  Disciples  {returning).  Behold, 
The  Master  sitting  by  the  well,  and 
talking 

With  a Samaritan  woman  ! With  a 
woman 

Of  Sychar,  the  silly  people,  always 
boasting 

Of  their  Mount  Ebal,  and  Mount  Geri- 
zim, 

Their  Everlasting  Mountain,  which 
they  think 

Higher  and  holier  than  our  Mount 
Moriah  ! 

Why,  once  upon  the  Feast  of  the  New 
Moon, 

When  our  great  Sanhedrim  of  Jerusa- 
lem 

Had  all  its  watch-fires  kindled  on  the 
hills 

To  warn  the  distant  villages,  these 
people 


Lighted  up  others  to  mislead  the  Jews, 

And  make  a mockery  of  their  festival  ! 

See,  she  has  left  the  Master;  and  is 
running 

Back  to  the  city  ! 

The  Samaritan  Woman.  O,  come 
see  a man 

Who  hath  told  me  all  things  that  I 
ever  did  ! 

Say,  is  not  this  the  Christ  ? 

The  Disciples.  Lo,  Master,  here 

Is  food,  that  we  have  brought  thee 
from  the  city. 

We  pray  thee  eat  it. 

Christus.  I have  food  to  eat 

Ye  know  not  of. 

The  Disciples  {to  each  other).  Hath 
any  man  been  here. 

And  brought  him  aught  to  eat,  while 
we  were  gone  ? 

Christus.  The  food  I speak  of  is  to 
do  the  will 

Of  him  that  sent  me,  and  to  finish  his 
work. 

Do  ye  not  say,  Lo  ! there  are  yet  four 
months 

And  cometh  harvest  ? I say  unto  you. 

Lift  up  your  eyes,  and  look  upon  the 
fields. 

For  they  are  white  already  unto  har- 
vest ! 


VII. 

THE  COASTS  OF  CAESAREA  • 
PHILIPPI. 

Christus  {going  up  the  mountain). 

Who  do  the  people  say  lam? 
John.  Some  say 

That  thou  art  John  the  Baptist ; some, 
Elias  ; 

And  others  Jeremiah. 

James.  Or  that  one 

Of  the  old  Prophets  is  arisen  again. 
Christus.  But  who  say  ye  I am? 
Peter.  Thou  art  the  Christ  ! 

Thou  art  the  Son  of  God  ! 

Christus.  Blessed  art  thou, 

Simon  Barjona  ! Flesh  and  blood  hath 
not 

Revealed  it  unto  thee,  but  even  my 
Father, 


THE  SECOND  PASSOVER. 


39 


Which  is  in  Heaven.  And  I say  unto 
thee 

That  thou  art  Peter ; and  upon  this  rock 
I build  my  Church,  and  all  the  gates  of 

Shall  not  prevail  against  it.  But  take 
heed 

Ye  tell  to  no  man  that  I am  the  Christ. 
For  I must  go  up  to  Jerusalem, 

And  suffer  many  things,  and  be  rejected 
Of  the  Chief  Priests,  and  of  the  Scribes 
and  Elders, 

And  must  be  crucified,  and  the  third 
day 

Shall  rise  again  ! 

Peter.  Be  it  far  from  thee.  Lord  ! 
This  shall  not  be  1 

Christus.  Get  thee  behind 

me,  Satan  ! 

Thou  savorest  not  the  things  that  be  of 
God, 

But  those  that  be  of  men  ! If  any  will 
Come  after  me,  let  him  deny  himself, 
And  daily  take  his  cross,  and  follow 
me. 

For  whosoever  will  save  his  life  shall 
lose  it. 

And  whosoever  will  lose  his  life  shall 
find  it. 

For  wherein  shall  a man  be  profited 
If  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world,  and 
shall  lose 

Himself  or  be  a castaway? 

James  {after  a long  pause).  Why 
doth 

The  Master  lead  us  up  into  this  moun- 
tain ? 

Peter.  He  goeth  up  to  pray. 

John.  See,  where  he  standeth 

Above  us  on  the  summit  of  the  hill ! 
His  face  shines  as  the  sun  ! and  all  his 
raiment 

Exceeding  white  as  snow,  so  as  no 
fuller 

On  earth  can  white  them  ! He  is  not 
alone  ; 

There  are  two  with  him  there  ; two 
men  of  eld, 

Their  white  beards  blowing  on  the 
mountain  air. 

Are  talking  with  him. 

James.  I am  sore  afraid  ! 

Peter.  Who  and  whence  are  they  ? 

John.  Moses  and  Elias  ! 


Peter.  O Master  ! it  is  good  for  us  to 
be  here  ! 

If  thou  wilt,  let  us  make  three  taberna- 
cles ; 

For  thee  one,  and  for  Moses  and  Elias  ! 

John.  Behold  a bright  cloud  sailing 
in  the  sun  ! 

It  overshadows  us.  A golden  mist 

Now  hides  them  from  us,  and  envelops 
us 

And  all  the  mountain  in  a luminous 
shadow ! 

I see  no  more.  The  nearest  rocks  are 
hidden. 

Voice  from  the  cloud.  Lo  ! this  is 
my  beloved  Son  ! Hear  him  ! 

Peter.  It  is  the  voice  of  God.  He 

' speaketh  to  us. 

As  from  the  burning  bush  he  spake  to 
Moses  ! 

John.  The  cloud-wreaths  roll  away. 
The  veil  is  lifted  ; 

We  see  again.  Behold  ! he  is  alone. 

It  was  a vision  that  our  eyes  beheld. 

And  it  hath  vanished  into  the  un- 
seen. 

Christus  [coming  down  from  the 
mo7intain').  I charge  ye,  tell  the 
vision  unto  no  one, 

Till  the  Son  of  Man  be  risen  from  the 
dead  ! 

Peter  {aside).  Again  he  speaks  of  it ! 
What  can  it  mean. 

This  rising  from  the  dead? 

James.  Why  say  the  Scribes 

Elias  must  first  come  ? 

Christus.  He  cometh  first, 

Restoring  all  things.  But  I say  to 
you, 

That  this  Elias  is  already  come. 

They  knew  him  not,  but  have  done 
unto  him 

Whate’er  they  listed,  as  is  written  of 
him. 

Peter  {aside).  It  is  of  John  the  Bap- 
tist he  is  speaking. 

James.  As  we  descend,  see,  at  the 
mountain’s  foot, 

A crowd  of  people ; coming,  going, 
thronging 

Round  the  disciples,  that  we  left  be- 
hind us, 

Seeming  impatient  that  we  stay  so 
long. 


40 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


Peter.  It  is  some  blind  man,  or  some 
paralytic 

That  waits  the  Master’s  coming  to  be 
healed. 

yaffles.  I see  a boy,  who  struggles 
and  demeans  him 

As  if  an  unclean  spirit  tormented  him  ! 

A certain  Man  (^running  forward). 
Lord  ! I beseech  thee,  look  upon 
my  son. 

He  is  mine  only  child  ; a lunatic. 

And  sorely  vexed  ; for  oftentimes  he 
falleth 

Into  the  fire  and  oft  into  the  water. 
Wherever  the  dumb  spirit  taketh  him 
He  teareth  him.  He  gnasheth  with  his 
teeth, 

And  pines  away.  I spake  to  thy  disciples 
That  they  should  cast  him  out,  and 
they  could  not. 

Christus.  O faithless  generation  and 
perverse  ! 

How  long  shall  I be  with  you,  and  suf- 
fer you  ? 

Bring  thy  son  hither. 

Bystanders.  How  the  unclean  spirit 
Seizes  the  boy,  and  tortures  him  with 
pain  ! 

He  falleth  to  the  ground  and  wallows, 
foaming  ! 

He  cannot  live. 

Christus.  How  long  is  it  ago 

Since  this  came  unto  him  ? 

The  Father.  Even  of  a child. 

O have  compassion  on  us.  Lord,  and 
help  us. 

If  thou  canst  help  us. 

Christus.  If  thou  canst  believe  1 

For  unto  him  that  verily  believeth. 

All  things  are  possible. 

The  Father.  Lord,  I believe  ! 

Help  thou  mine  unbelief! 

Christus.  Dumb  and  deaf  spirit, 

Come  out  of  him,  I charge  thee,  and  no 
more 

Enter  thou  into  him  1 
( The  boy  utters  a loud  cry  of  pain,  and 
then  lies  still. ) 

Bystanders.  How  motionless 

He  lieth  there.  No  life  is  left  in  him. 
His  eyes  are  like  a blind  man’s,  that  see 
not. 

The  boy  is  dead  ! 


Others.  Behold  ! the  Master  stoops. 

And  takes  him  by  the  hand,  and  lifts 
him  up. 

He  is  not  dead. 

Disciples.  But  one  word  from 
those  lips. 

But  one  touch  of  that  hand,  and  he  is 
healed  ! 

Ah,  why  could  we  not  do  it  ? 

The  Father.  My  poor  child  ! 

Now  thou  art  mine  again.  The  un- 
clean spirit 

Shall  never  more  torment  thee  ! Look 
at  me  ! 

Speak  unto  me  ! Say  that  thou  know- 
est  me  ! 

Disciples  to  Christus  {departing). 
Good  Master,  tell  us,  for  what 
reason  was  it 

We  could  not  cast  him  out? 

Christus.  Because  of  your  unbelief  I 


VIII. 

THE  YOUNG  RULER. 

Christus.  Two  men  went  up  into  the 
temple  to  pray. 

The  one  was  a self-righteous  Pharisee, 
The  other  a Publican.  And  the  Phar- 
isee 

Stood  and  prayed  thus  within  himself : 
O God, 

I thank  thee  I am  not  as  other  men, 
Extortioners,  unjust,  adulterers. 

Or  even  as  this  Publican.  I fast 
Twice  in  the  week,  and  also  I give  tithes 
Of  all  that  I possess  ! The  Publican, 
Standing  afar  off,  would  not  lift  so  much 
Even  as  his  eyes  to  heaven,  but  smote 
his  breast. 

Saying  : God  be  merciful  to  me  a sin- 
ner ! 

I tell  you  that  this  man  went  to  his 
house 

More  justified  than  the  other.  Every 
one 

That  doth  exalt  himself  shall  be  abased. 
And  he  that  humbleth  himself  shall  be 
exalted  ! 

Children  [among  themselves).  Let  us 
go  nearer  ! He  is  telling  stories  ! 
Let  us  go  listen  to  them. 


THE  SECOND  PASSOVER. 


41 


A n old  Jew.  _ Children,  children  ! 
What  are  ye  doing  here?  Why  do  ye 
crowd  us  ? 

It  was  such  little  vagabonds  as  you, 
That  followed  Elisha,  mocking  him  and 
crying : 

Go  up,  thou  bald-head  ! But  the  bears 
— the  bears 

Came  out  of  the  wood,  and  tare  them  ! 

A Mother.  Speak  not  thus  ! 

We  brought  them  here,  that  he  might 
lay  his  hands 
On  them,  and  bless  them. 

Christus.  Suffer  little  children 

To  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not ; 
Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ; and 
their  angels 

Look  always  on  my  Father’s  face. 

{Takes  them  in  his  arms  and  blesses 
them.) 

A Young  Ruler  {running).  Good 
Master  ! 

What  good  thing  shall  I do,  that  I may 
have 

Eternal  life  ? 

Christus.  Why  callest  thou  me  good  ? 
There  is  none  good  but  one,  and  that  is 
God. 

If  thou  wilt  enter  into  life  eternal. 

Keep  the  commandments. 

Young  Ruler.  Which  of  them  ? 

Christus.  Thou  shalt  not 

Commit  adultery  ; thou  shalt  not  kill  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  steal ; thou  shalt  not 
bear  false  witness ; 

Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother  ; and 
love 

Thy  neighbor  as  thyself. 

"Young  Rider.  From  my  youth  up 
All  these  things  have  I kept.  What 
lack  I yet? 

John.  With  what  divine  compassion 
in  his  eyes 

The  Master  looks  upon  this  eager  youth. 
As  if  he  loved  him  ! 

Christus.  Wouldst  thou  perfect  be. 
Sell  all  thou  hast,  and  give  it  to  the  poor. 
And  come,  take  up  thy  cross,  and  follow 
me, 

And  thou  shalt  have  thy  treasure  in  the 
heavens. 

John.  Behold,  how  sorrowful  he 
turns  away  I 


Christus.  Children  ! how  hard  it  is 
for  them  that  trust 

In  riches  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of 
God ! 

’T  is  easier  for  a camel  to  go  through 

A needle’s  eye,  than  for  the  rich  to 
enter 

The  kingdom  of  God  ! 

John.  Ah,  who  then  can  be  saved  ? 

Christus.  With  men  this  is  indeed 
impossible. 

But  unto  God  all  things  are  possi- 
ble ! 

Peter.  Behold,  we  have  left  all,  and 
followed  thee. 

What  shall  we  have  therefor  ? 

Christus.  Eternal  life. 


IX. 

AT  BETHANY. 

Martha  busy  about  household  affairs. 

Mary  sitting  at  the  feet  of  Chris- 
tus. 

Martha.  She  sitteth  idly  at  the  Mas- 
ter’s feet, 

And  troubles  not  herself  with  house- 
hold cares. 

’T  is  the  old  story.  When  a guest  ar- 
rives 

She  gives  up  all  to  be  with  him  ; while  I 

Must  be  the  drudge,  make  ready  the 
guest-chamber. 

Prepare  the  food,  set  everything  in  or- 
der, 

And  see  that  naught  is  wanting  in  the 
house. 

She  shows  her  love  by  words,  and  I by 
works. 

Mary.  O Master  ! when  thou  com- 
est,  it  is  always 

A Sabbath  in  the  house.  I cannot 
work  ; 

I must  sit  at  thy  feet ; must  see  thee, 
hear  thee  ! 

I have  a feeble,  wayward,  doubting 
heart. 

Incapable  of  endurance  or  great 
thoughts, 

Striving  for  something  that  it  cannot 
reach, 


42 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


Baffled  and  disappointed,  wounded, 
hungry ; 

And  only  when  I hear  thee  am  I happy, 

And  only  when  I see  thee  am  at  peace! 

Stronger  than  I,  and  wiser,  and  far 
better 

In  every  manner,  is  my  sister  Martha. 

You  see  how  well  she  orders  everything 

To  make  thee  welcome ; how  she  comes 
and  goes, 

Careful  and  cumbered  ever  with  much 
serving, 

While  I but  welcome  thee  with  foolish 
words  ! 

Whene’er  thou  speakest  to  me,  I am 
happy ; 

When  thou  art  silent,  I am  satisfied. 

Thy  presence  is  enough.  I ask  no 
more. 

Only  to  be  with  thee,  only  to  see  thee, 

Sufficeth  me.  My  heart  is  then  at  rest. 

I wonder  I am  worthy  of  so  much. 

Martha.  Lord,  dost  thou  care  not 
that  my  sister  Mary 

Hath  left  me  thus  to  wait  on  thee 
alone  ? 

I pray  thee,  bid  her  help  me. 

Ckristus.  Martha,  Martha, 

Careful  and  troubled  about  many 
things 

Art  thou,  and  yet  one  thing  alone  is 
needful  I 

Thy  sister  Mary  hath  chosen  that  good 
part. 

Which  never  shall  be  taken  away  from 
her  1 

X. 

BORN  BLIND. 

A yew.  Who  is  this  beggar  blinking 
in  the  sun  ? 

Is  it  not  he  who  used  to  sit  and  beg 

By  the  Gate  Beautiful  ? 

A tiother.  It  is  the  same. 

A Third.  It  is  not  he,  but  like  him, 
for  that  beggar 

Was  blind  from  birth.  It  cannot  be 
the  same. 

The  Beggar.  Yea,  I am  he. 

A yew.  How 

have  thine  eyes  been  opened  ? 


The  Beggar.  A man  that  is  called 
Jesus  made  a clay 

And  put  it  on  mine  eyes,  and  said  to 
me  : 

Go  to  Siloam’s  Pool  and  wash  thyself. 

I went  and  washed,  and  I received  my 
sight. 

A yew.  Where  is  he  ? 

The  Beggar.  I know  not. 

Pharisees.  What  is  this  crowd 

Gathered  about  a beggar.^  What  has 
happened  ? 

A yew.  Here  is  a man  who  hath 
been  blind  from  birth. 

And  now  he  sees.  He  says  a man 
called  Jesus 

Hath  healed  him. 

Pharisees.  As  Godliveth,  the  Naza- 
rene  ! 

How  was  this  done  ? 

The  Beggar.  Rabboni,  he  put  clay 

Upon  mine  eyes ; I washed,  and  now 
I see. 

Pharisees.  When  did  he  this  ? 

■ The  Beggar.  Rabboni,  yesterday. 

Pharisees.  The  Sabbath-day.  This 
man  is  not  of  God 

Because  he  keepeth  not  the  Sabbath- 
day  ! 

A yew.  How  can  a man  that  is  a 
sinner  do 

Such  miracles  ? 

Pharisees.  What  dost  thou  say  of 
him 

That  hath  restored  thy  sight  ? 

The  Beggar.  He  is  a Prophet. 

A yew.  This  is  a wonderful  story, 
but  not  true. 

A beggar’s  fiction.  He  was  not  born 
blind, 

And  never  has  been  blind  ! 

Others.  Here  are  his  parents. 

Ask  them. 

Pharisees.  Is  this  your  son  ? 

The  Parents.  Rabboni,  yea  ; 

We  know  this  is  our  son. 

Pharisees.  Was  he  bom  blind? 

The  Parents.  He  was  bom  blind. 

Pharisees.  Then  how  doth  he  now 
see? 

The  Parents  (aside).  What  answer 
shall  we  make  ? If  we  confess 

It  was  the  Christ,  we  shall  be  driven 
forth 


JHE  SECOND  PASSOVER. 


43 


Out  of  the  Synagogue ! We  know, 
Rabboni, 

This  is  our  son,  and  that  he  was  born 
blind ; 

But  by  what  means  he  seeth,  we 
know  not, 

Or  who  his  eyes  hath  opened,  we  know 
not. 

He  is  of  age  ; ask  him  ; we  cannot  say  ; 

He  shall  speak  for  himself. 

Pharisees.  Give  God  the  praise  ! 

We  know  the  man  that  healed  thee  is 
a sinner  ! 

The  Beggar.  Whether  he  be  a sin- 
ner, 1 know  not ; 

One  thing  I know  ; that  whereas  I was 
blind, 

I now  do  see. 

Pharisees.  How  opened  he  thine 
eyes? 

What  did  he  do? 

The  Beggar.  I have  already  told 
you. 

Ye  did  not  hear;  why  would  ye  hear 
again  ? 

Will  ye  be  his  disciples  ? 

Pharisees.  God  of  Moses  ! 

Are  we  demoniacs,  are  we  halt  or  blind. 

Or  palsy-stricken,  or  lepers,  or  the  like. 

That  we  should  join  the  Synagogue  of 
Satan, 

And  follow  jugglers?  Thou  art  his 
disciple. 

But  we  are  disciples  of  Mose« ; and  w'e 
know 

That  God  spake  unto  Moses  ; but  this 
fellow. 

We  know  not  whence  he  is  ! 

The  Beggar.  Why,  herein  is 

A marvellous  thing ! Ye  know  not 
whence  he  is, 

Yet  he  hath  opened  mine  eyes  ! We 
know  that  God 

Heareth  not  sinners  ; but  if  any  man 

Doeth  God’s  will,  and  is  his  worship- 
per. 

Him  doth  he  hear.  O,  since  the  world 
began 

It  was  not  heard  that  any  man  hath 
opened 

The  eyes  of  one  that  was  born  blind. 
If  he 

Were  not  of  God,  surely  he  could  do 
nothing  ! 


Pharisees.  Thou,  who  wast  alto- 
gether born  in  sins 

And  in  iniquities,  dost  thou  teach  us? 
Away  with  thee  out  of  the  holy  places, 
Thou  reprobate,  thou  beggar,  thou . 
blasphemer  ! 

(The  Beggar  is  cast  out.) 

XI. 

SIMON  MAGUS  AND  HELEN 
OF  TYRE. 

On  the  house-top  at  Endor.  Night. 

A lighted  lantern  on  a table. 

Simon.  Swift  are  the  blessed  Im- 
mortals to  the  mortal 
That  perseveres  ! So  doth  it  stand  re- 
corded 

In  the  divine  Chaldaean  Oracles 
Of  Zoroaster,  once  Ezekiel’s  slave. 

Who  in  his  native  East  betook  himself 
To  lonely  meditation,  and  the  writing 
On  the  dried  skins  of  oxen  the  Twelve 
Books 

Of  the  Avesta  and  the  Oracles  ! 
Therefore  I persevere ; and  I have 
brought  thee 

From  the  great  city  of  Tyre,  where 
men  deride 

The  things  they  comprehend  not,  to 
this  plain 

Of  Esdraelon,  in  the  Hebrew  tongue 
Called  Armageddon,  and  this  town  of 
Endor, 

Where  men  believe ; where  all  the  air 
is  full 

Of  marvellous  traditions,  and  the  En- 
chantress 

That  summoned  up  the  ghost  of 
Samuel 

Is  still  remembered.  Thou  hast  seen 
the  land  : 

Is  it  not  fair  to  look  on  ? 

Helen.  It  is  fair. 

Yet  not  so  fair  as  Tyre. 

Simoh.  Is  not  Mount  Tabor 

As  beautiful  as  Carmel  by  the  Sea? 

Helen.  It  is  too  silent  and  too  soli- 
tary ; 

I miss  the  tumult  of  the  streets ; the 
sounds 

Of  traffic,  and  the  going  to  and  fro 


44 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


Of  people  in  gay  attire,  with  cloaks  of 
purple, 

And  gold  and  silver  jewelry  ! 

Simon.  Inventions 

Of  Ahriman,  the  spirit  of  the  dark. 

The  Evil  Spirit  ! 

Helen.  I regret  the  gossip 

Of  friends  and  neighbors  at  the  open 
door 

On  summer  nights. 

Simon.  An  idle  waste  of  time. 

HeTn.  The  singing  and  the  dancing, 
the  delight 

Of  music  and  of  motion.  Woe  is  me. 
To  give  up  all  these  pleasures,  and  to 
lead 

The  life  we  lead  ! 

Simon.  Thou  canst  not  raise  thyself 
Up  to  the  level  of  my  higher  thought. 
And  though  possessing  thee,  I still  re- 
main 

Apart  from  thee,  and  with  thee,  am 
alone 

In  my  high  dreams. 

Helen.  Happier  was  I in  Tyre. 
O,  I remember  how  the  gallant  ships 
Came  sailing  in,  with  ivory,  gold  and 
silver. 

And  apes  and  peacocks  ; and  the  sing- 
ing sailors  ; 

And  the  gay  captains,  with  their  silken 
dresses, 

Smelling  of  aloes,  myrrh,  and  cinnamon  ! 

Simon.  But  the  dishonor,  Helen  ! 
Let  the  ships 

Of  Tarshish  howl  for  that  ! 

Hele7i.  And  what  dishonor  ? 

Remember  Rahab,  and  how  she  became 
The  ancestress  of  the  great  Psalmist 
David ; 

And  wherefore  should  not  I,  Helen  of 
Tyre, 

Attain  like  honor? 

Simon.  Thou  art  Helen  of  Tyre, 
And  hast  been  Helen  of  Troy,  and  hast 
been  Rahab, 

The  Queen  of  Sheba,  and  Semiramis, 
And  Sara  of  seven  husbands,  and 
Jezebel, 

And  other  women  of  the  like  allure- 
ments; 

And  now  thou  art  Minerva,  the  first 
.(Eon, 

The  Mother  of  Angels  ! 


Helen.  And  the  concubine 

Of  Simon  the  Magician  ! Is  it  honor 

For  one  who  has  been  all  these  noble 
dames, 

To  tramp  about  the  dirty  villages 

And  cities  of  Samaria  with  a juggler? 

A charmer  of  serpents? 

Simofi.  He  who  knows  himself. 

Knows  all  things  in  himself.  I have 
charmed  thee. 

Thou  beautiful  asp ; yet  am  I no 
magician. 

I am  the  Power  of  God,  and  the  Beau- 
ty of  God  ! 

I am  the  Paraclete,  the  Comforter  ! 

Helen  Illusions  ! Thou  deceiver, 
self-deceived  ! 

Thou  dost  usurp  the  titles  of  another  ; 

Thou  art  not  what  thou  sayest. 

Simon.  Am  I not? 

Then  feel  my  power. 

Helen.  Would  I had 

ne’er  left  Tyre  ! 

{He  looks  at  her.,  and  she  sinks  into  a 
deei>  sleep.) 

Simon.  Go,  seeTt  in  thy  dreams, 
fair  unbeliever  ! 

And  leave  me  unto  mine,  if  they  be 
dreams. 

That  take  such  shapes  before  me,  that 
I see  them  ; 

These  effable  and  ineffable  impressions 

Of  the  mysterious  world,  that  come  to 
me 

From  the  elements  of  Fire  and  Earth 
and  Water, 

And  the  all-nourishing  Ether  ! It  is 
written, 

Look  not  on  Nature,  for  her  name  is 
fatal  ! 

Yet  there  are  Principles,  that  make 
apparent 

The  images  of  unapparent  things. 

And  the  impression  of  vague  charac- 
ters 

And  visions  most  divine  appear  in 
ether. 

So  speak  the  Oracles  ; then  wherefore 
fatal  ? 

I take  this  orange-bough,  w'ith  its  five 
• leaves. 

Each  equidistant  on  the  upright  stem  ; 

And  I project  them  on  a plane  below, 


THE  SECOND  PASSOVER. 


45 


In  the  circumference  of  a circle  drawn 

About  a centre  where  the  stem  is  plant- 
ed. 

And  each  still  equidistant  from  the  oth- 

As  if  a thread  of  gossamer  were  drawn 

Down  from  each  leaf,  and  fastened  with 
a pin. 

Now  if  from  these  five  points  a line  be 
traced 

To  each  alternate  point,  we  shall  obtain 

The  Pentagram,  or  Solomon’s  Pentan- 


sign. 

Which  on  the  banner  of  Antiochus 

Drove  back  the  fierce  barbarians  of  the 
North, 

Demons  esteemed,  and  gave  the  Syrian 
King 

The  sacred  name  of  Soter,  or  of  Savior. 

Thus  Nature  works  mysteriously  with 
man  ; 

And  from  the  Eternal  One,  as  from  a 
centre. 

All  things  proceed,  in  fire,  air,  earth, 
and  water. 

And  all  are  subject  to  one  law,  which 
broken 

Even  in  a single  point,  is  broken  in  all ; 

Demons  rush  in,  and  chaos  comes  again. 

By  this  will  I compel  the  stubborn  spir- 
its. 

That  guard  the  treasures,  hid  in  caverns 
deep 

On  Gerizim,  by  Uzzi  the  High-Priest, 

The  ark  and  holy  vessels,  to  reveal 

Their  secret  unto  me,  and  to  restore 

These  precious  things  to  the  Samari- 
tans. 

A mist  is  rising  from  the  plain  below 
me. 

And  as  I look,  the  vapors  shape  them- 
selves 

Into  strange  figures,  as  if  unawares 

My  lips  had  breathed  the  Tetragram- 
maton. 

And  from  their  graves,  o’er  all  the  bat- 
tle-fields 


Of  Armageddon,  the  long-buried  cap- 
tains 

Had  started,  with  their  thousands,  and 
ten  thousands. 

And  rushed  together  to  renew  their 
wars. 

Powerless,  and  weaponless,  and  with- 
out a sound  ! 

Wake,  Helen,  from  thy  sleep  ! The  air 
grows  cold  ; 

Let  us  go  down. 

Helen  {awaking).  O would  I were  at 
home  ! 

Simon.  Thou  sayest  that  I usurp 
another’s  titles. 

In  youth  I saw  the  Wise  Men  of  the 
East, 

Magalath  and  Pangalath,  and  Saracen, 
Who  followed  the  bright  star,  but  home 
returned 

For  fear  of  Herod  by  another  way. 

O shining  worlds  above  me ! in  what 
deep 

Recesses  of  your  realms  of  mystery 
Lies  hidden  now  that  star?  and  where 
are  they 

That  brought  the  gifts  of  frankincense 
and  myrrh  ! 

Helen.  The  Nazarene  still  liveth. 

Simon.  We  have  heard 

His  name  in  many  towns,  but  have  not 
seen  him. 

He  flits  before  us ; tarries  not ; is 
gone 

When  we  approach,  like  something  un- 
substantial. 

Made  of  the  air,  and  fading  into  air. 

He  is  at  Nazareth,  he  is  at  Nain, 

Or  at  the  Lovely  Village  on  the  Lake, 
Or  sailing  on  its  waters. 

Helen.  So  say  those 

Who  do  not  wish  to  find  him. 

Simon.  Can  this  be 

The  King  of  Israel,  whom  the  Wise 
Men  worshipped  ? 

Or  does  he  fear  to  meet  me  ? It  would 
seem  so. 

We  should  soon  learn  which  of  us  twain 
usurps 

The  titles  of  the  other,  as  thou  sayest. 

{They go  down.) 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 

THE  THIRD  PASSOVER. 


THE  THIRD  PASSOVER. 


THE  ENTRY  INTO  JERUSA- 
LEM. 

The  Syro-Phcenician  Woman  and 
her  Daughter  on  the  house-top  at 
Jerusalem. 

The  Darighter  (singing).  Blind  Bar- 
timeus  at  the  gates 
Of  Jericho  in  darkness  waits  ; 

He  hears  the  crowd ; — he  hears  a 
breath 

Say:  It  is  Christ  of  Nazareth  ! 

And  calls,  in  tones  of  agony, 

’Irjcrov,  e\er]<T6v  fx.e  ! 

The  thronging  multitudes  increase  ; 
Blind  Bartimeus,  hold  thy  peace  ! 

But  still,  above  the  noisy  crowd, 

The  beggar’s  cry  is  shrill  and  loud  ; 
Until  they  say  : He  calleth  thee  ! 
©dpcrei,  eyeipat,  <j)U}vel  ere  ] 

Then  saith  the  Christ,  as  silent  stands 
The  crowd : What  wilt  thou  at  my 
hands  ? 

And  he  replies  : O,  give  me  light  ! 
Rabbi,  restore  the  blind  man’s  sight  ! 
And  Jesus  answers,  "Yrraye  • 

'H  TUffTi?  <Tov  creaw/ce'  <re  / 

Ye  that  have  eyes,  yet  cannot  see. 

In  darkness  and  in  misery, 

RecaH  those  mighty  voices  Three, 
’Irj(TOu,  eAerjcroi^  p.e  / 

©dporet,  eyeipaL,  ‘'Ynaye  ! 

'H  ni<TTi<;  aov  aecreoKe  ere  ! 

The  Mother.  Thy  faith  hath  saved 
thee  ! Ah,  how  true  that  is  ! 

For  I had  faith  ; and  when  the  Master 
came 


Into  the  coasts  of  Tyre  and  Sidon,  flee- 
ing 

From  those  who  sought  to  slay  him,  I 
went  forth 

And  cried  unto  him,  saying:  Have 
mercy  on  me, 

0 Lord,  thou  Son  of  David  ! for  my 

daughter 

Is  grievously  tormented  with  a devil. 
But  he  passed  on,  and  answered  not  a 
word.  ^ 

And  his  disciples  said,  beseeching  him  : 
Send  her  away  ! She  crieth  after  us  ! 
And  then  the  Master  answered  them 
and  said  : 

1 am  not  sent  but  unto  the  lost  sheep 
Of  the  House  of  Israel ! Then  I wor- 
shipped him. 

Saying  : Lord,  help  me  ! And  he  an- 
swered me. 

It  is  not  meet  to  take  the  children’s 
bread 

And  cast  it  unto  dogs  ! Truth,  Lord,  I 
said  : 

And  yet  the  dogs  may  eat  the  crumbs 
which  fall 

From  off  their  master’s  table;  and  he 
turned. 

And  answered  me ; and  said  to  me  : O 
woman. 

Great  is  thy  faith  ; then  be  it  unto  thee, 
Even  as  thou  wilt.  And  from  that  very 
hour 

Thou  wast  made  whole,  my  darling  ! 
my  delight  ! 

The  DaugJtter.  There  came  upon 
my  dark  and  troubled  mind 
A calm,  as  when  the  tumult  of  the  city 
Suddenly  ceafees,  and  I lie  and  hear 
The  silver  trumpets  of  the  Temple 
blowing 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


Their  welcome  to  the  Sabbath.  Still  I 
wonder, 

That  one  who  was  so  far  away  from  me, 
And  could  not  see  me,  by  his  thought 
alone 

Had  power  to  heal  me.  O that  I could 
see  him  ! 

Tfte  Mother.  Perhaps  thou  wilt ; for 
I have  brought  thee  here 
To  keep  the  holy  Passover,  and  lay 
Thine  offering  of  thanksgiving  on  the 
altar. 

Thou  mayst  both  see  and  hear  him. 
Hark! 

Voices  afar  off.  Hosanna  I 

The  Daughter.  A crowd  comes  pour- 
ing through  the  city  gate  1 
O mother,  look  ! 

V oices  in  the  street.  Hosanna  to  the 
Son 
Of  David  I 

The  Dajighter.  A great  multitude  of 
people 

Fills  all  the  street ; and  riding  on  an 
ass 

Comes  one  of  noble  aspect,  like  a king  I 
The  people  spread  their  garments  in  the 
way. 

And  scatter  branches  of  the  palm- 
trees  1 

Voices.  Blessed 

Is  he  that  cometh  in  the  name  of  the 
Lord  I 

Hosanna  in  the  highest  ! 

Other  Voices.  Who  is  this  ? 

Voices.  Jesus  of  Nazareth  I 

The  Daughter.  Mother,  it  is  he  I 

Voices.  He  hath  called  Lazarus  of 
Bethany 

Out  of  his  grave,  and  raised  him  from 
the  dead  I 

Hosanna  in  the  highest  I 

Pharisees.  Ye  perceive 

That  nothing  we  prevail.  Behold,  the 
world 

Is  all  gone  after  him  ! 

Tile  Daughter.  What  majesty. 

What  power  is  in  that  care-worn  coun- 
tenance ! 

What  sweetness,  what  compassion  ! I 
no  longer 

Wonder  that  he  hath  healed  me  ! 

Voices.  Peace  in  heaven. 

And  glory  in  the  highest ! 


Pharisees.  Rabbi ! Rabbi  ! 

Rebuke  thy  followers  ! 

Christus.  Should  they 

hold  their  peace 

The  very  stones  beneath  us  would  cry 
out ! 

The  Daughter.  All  hath  passed  by 
me  like  a dream  of  wonder  I 

But  I have  seen  him,  and  have  heard 
his  voice, 

And  I am  satisfied  ! I ask  no  more  ! 

II. 

SOLOMON’S  PORCH. 

Gamaliel  the  Scribe.  When  Rabban 
Simeon,  upon  whom  be  peace  ! 

Taught  in  these  Schools,  he  boasted 
that  his  pen 

Had  written  no  word  that  he  could  call 
his  own, 

But  wholly  and  always  had  been  con- 
secrated 


To  the  transcribing  of  the  Law  and 
Prophets. 

He  used  to  say,  and  never  tired  of  say- 


And  ancient  Hillel  said,  that  whosoever 

Gains  a good  name,  gains  something  for 
himself. 

But  he  who  gains  a knowledge  of  the 
Law 

Gains  everlasting  life.  And  they  spake 
truly. 

Great  is  the  Written  Law  ; but  greater 
still 

The  Unwritten,  the  Traditions  of  the 
Elders, 

The  lovely  words  of  Levites,  spoken  first 

To  Moses  on  the  Mount,  and  handed 
down 

From  mouth  to  mouth,  in  one  unbroken 
sound 

And  sequence  of  divine  authority. 

The  voice  of  God  resounding  through 
the  ages. 

The  Written  Law  is  water ; the  Unwrit- 
ten 

Is  precious  wine  ; the  Written  Law  is 
salt. 


THE  THIRD  PASSOVER. 


The  Unwritten  costly  spice  ; the  Writ- 
ten Law 

Is  but  the  body ; the  Unwritten,  the 
soul 

That  quickens  it,  and  makes  it  breathe 
and  iive. 

I can  remember,  many  years  ago, 

A little  bright-eyed  school-boy,  a mere 
stripling. 

Son  of  a Galilean  carpenter, 

From  Nazareth,  I think,  who  came  one 
day 

And  sat  here  in  the  Temple  with  the 
_ Scribes, 

Hearing  us  speak,  and  asking  many 
questions. 

And  we  were  all  astonished  at  his 
quickness. 

And  when  his  mother  came,  and  said  : 
Behold 

Thy  father  and  I have  sought  thee,  sor- 
rowing ; 

He  looked  as  one  astonished,  and  made 
answer  ; 

How  is  it  that  ye  sought  me  ? Wist  ye 
not 

That  I rnust  be  about  my  Father’s 
business  ? 

Often  since  then  I see  him  here  among 
us. 

Or  dream  I see  him,  with  his  upraised 
face 

Intent  and  eager,  and  I often  w'onder 

Unto  what  manner  of  manhood  he  hath 
grown  ! 

Perhaps  a poor  mechanic,  like  his 
father, 

Lost  in  his  little  Galilean  village 

And  toiling  at  his  craft,  to  die  un- 
known 

And  be  no  more  remembered  among 
men. 

Christus  {m  the  outer  court').  The 
Scribes  and  Pharisees  sit  in 

, Moses’  seat  : 

All,  therefore,  whatsoever  they  com- 
mand you. 

Observe  and  do  ; but  follow  not  their 
works : 

They  say  and  do  not.  They  bind 
heavy  burdens 

And  very  grievous  to  be  borne,  and 
lay  them 


SI 

Upon  men’s  shoulders,  but  they  move 
them  not 

With  so  much  as  a finger  ! 

Ga^naliel  {looking’  forth).  Who  is 
this 

Exhorting  in  the  outer  courts  so  loud- 

Christus.  Their  works  they  do  for  to 
be  seen  of  men. 

They  make  broad  their  phylacteries, 
and  enlarge 

The  borders  of  their  garments,  and 
they  love 

The  uppermost  rooms  at  feasts,  and 
the  chief  seats 

In  Synagogues,  and  greetings  in  the 
markets. 

And  to  be  called  of  all  men  Rabbi, 
Rabbi  ! 

Gamaliel.  I t is  that  loud  and  turbu- 
lent Galilean, 

That  came  here  at  the  Feast  of  Dedica- 
tion, 

And  stirred  the  people  up  to  break  the 
Law ! 

Christus.  Woe  unto  you,  ye  Scribes 
and  Pharisees, 

Ye  hypocrites ! for  ye  shut  up  the 
kingdom 

Of  heaven,  and  neither  go  ye  in  your- 
selves 

Nor  suffer  them  that  are  entering  to  go 
in  ! 

Gamaliel.  How  eagerly  the  people 
throng  and  listen. 

As  if  his  ribald  words  were  words  of 
wisdom  ! 

Christus.  Woe  unto  you,  ye  Scribes 
and  Pharisees, 

Ye  hypocrites  ! for  ye  devour  the 
houses 

Of  widows,  and  for  pretence  ye  make 
long  prayers ; 

Therefore  shall  ye  receive  the  more 
damnation. 

Gamaliel.  This  brawler  is  no  Jew, 
— he  is  a vile 

Samaritan,  and  hath  an  unclean  spirit ! 

Christus.  Woe  unto  you,  ye  Scribes 
and  Pharisees, 

Ye  hypocrites  ! ye  compass  sea  and 
land 

To  make  one  proselyte,  and  when  he  is 
made 


52 


THE'  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


Ye  make  him  twofold  more  the  child  of 
hell 

Than  you  yourselves  are  ! 

Gamaliel.  O my  father’s  father  ! 
Hillel  of  blessed  memory,  hear  and 
judge  ! 

Christm-  Woe  unto  you,  ye  Scribes 
and  Pharisees, 

Ye  hypocrites ! for  ye  pay  tithe  of 
mint, 

Of  anise  and  of  cumin,  and  omit 
The  weightier  matters  of  the  law  of  God, 
Judgment  and  faith  and  mercy  ; and 
all  these 

Ye  ought  to  have  done,  nor  leave  un- 
done the  others  ! 

Gamaliel.  O Rabban  Simeon  ! how 
must  thy  bones 

Stir  in  their  grave  to  hear  such  blas- 
phemies ! 

Christtis.  Woe  unto  you,  ye  Scribes 
and  Pharisees, 

Ye  hypocrites  ! for  ye  make  clean  and 
sweet 

The  outside  of  the  cup  and  of  the  plat- 
ter. 

But  they  within  are  full  of  all  excess  ! 

Gamaliel.  Patience  of  God  ! canst 
thou  endure  so  long?. 

Or  art  thou  deaf,  or  gone  upon  a jour- 
ney? 

Christus.  Woe  unto  you,  3’e  Scribes 
and  Pharisees, 

■ Ye  hypocrites  ! for  ye  are  very  like 
To  whited  sepulchres,  which  indeed 
appear 

Beautiful  outwardlj',  but  are  within 
Filled  full  of  dead  men’s  bones  and  all 
uncleanness  ! 

Gamaliel.  Am  I awake?  Is  this 
Jerusalem  ? 

And  are  these  Jews  that  throng  and 
■ stare  and  listen  ? 

Christus.  Woe  unto  you,  ye  Scribes' 
and  Pharisees, 

Ye  hjTDOcrites  ! because  ye  build  the 
tombs 

Of  Prophets,  and  adorn  the  sepulchres 
Of  righteous  men,  and  say  : If  we  had 
lived 

When  lived  our  fathers,  we  would  not 
have  been 

Partakers  with  them  in  the  blood  of 
Prophets. 


So  3'e  be  witnesses  unto  j'ourselves, 

^ That  ye  are  children  of  them  that 
killed  the  Prophets  ! 

Fill  3'e  up  then  the  measure  of  your 
fathers. 

I send  unto  you  Prophets  and  Wise 
Men, 

And  Scribes,  and  some  ye  cruci5%  and 
some 

Scourge  in  3'our  Synagogues,  and  per- 
secute 

From  city  to  dty  ; that  on  j’ou  may 
come 

The  righteous  blood  that  hath  been 
shed  on  earth. 

From  the  blood  of  righteous  Abel  to 
the  blood 

Of  Zacharias,  son  of  Barachias, 

Ye  slew  between  the  Temple  and  the 
altar  ! 

Gamaliel.  O,  had  I here  my  subtle 
dialectician, 

My  little  Saul  of  Tarsus,  the  tent- 
maker, 

Whose  wit  is  sharper  than  his  needle’s 
point. 

He  would  delight  to  foil  this  noisy 
wrangler ! 

Christus.  Jerusalem  ! Jerusalem  ! 
O thou 

That  killest  the  Prophets,  and  that 
stonest  them 

Which  are  sent  unto  thee,  how  often 
would  I 

Have  gathered  together  thy  children, 
as  a hen 

Gathereth  her  chickens  underneath  her 
wdng. 

And  ye  would  not ! Behold,  your 
house  is  left 

Unto  you  desolate ! 

The  People.  This  is  a Prophet ! 

This  is  the  Christ  that  was  to  come  ! 

Gamaliel.  Ye  fools  ! 

Think  ve,  shall  Christ  come  out  of 
Galilee  ? 

III. 

LORD,  IS  IT  I? 

Christus.  One  ofyou  shall  betray  rrte. 

The  Disciples.  Is  it  I ? 

Lord,  is  it  I ? 


THE  THIRD  PASSOVER. 


53 


Christus.  One  of  the  Twelve  it  is 

That  dippeth  with  me  in  this  dish  his 
hand ; 

He  shall  betray  me.  Lo,  the  Son  of 

■ Man 

Goeth  indeed  as  it  is  written  of  him  ; 

But  woe  shall  be  unto  that  man  by  ' 
whom 

He  is  betrayed  ! Good  were  it  for  that 
man 

If  he  had  ne’er  been  born  ! 

Judas  Iscariot.  Lord,  is  it  I ? 

Christus.  Ay,  thou  hast  said.  And 
that  thou  doest,  do  quickly. 

Judas  Iscariot  {going  out).  Ah,  woe 
is  me  ! 

Christus.  All  ye  shall  be  offended 

Because  of  me  this  night  ; for  it  is 
written  : 

Awake,  O sword  against  my  shepherd  ! 
Smite 

The  shepherd,  saith  the  Lord  of  hosts, 
and  scattered 

Shall  be  the  sheep  ! — But  after  I am 
risen 

I go  before  you  into  Galilee. 

Peter.  O Master  ! though  all  men 
shall  be  offended 

Because  of  thee,  yet  will  not  I be  ! 

Christus.  Simon, 

Behold  how  Satan  hath  desired  to  have 
you. 

That  he  may  sift  you  as  one  sifteth 
wheat! 

Whither  I go  thou  canstnot  follow  me. 

Not  now  ; — but  thou  shalt  follow  me 
hereafter. 

Peter.  Wherefore  can  I not  follow 
thee  ? lam  ready 

To  go  with  thee  to  prison  and  to  death. 

Christus.  Verily  say  I unto  thee,  this 
night. 

Ere  the  cock  crow,  thou  shalt  deny  me 
thrice  ! 

Peter.  Though  I should  die,  yet 
will  I not  deny  thee. 

JChristus.  When  first  I sent  you 
forth  without  a purse. 

Or  scrip,  or  shoes,  did  ye  lack  any- 
thing? 

The  Disciples.  Not  anything. 

Christus.  But  he  that  hath  a purse, 

Now  let  him  take  it,  and  likewise  his 
scrip ; 


And  he  that  hath  no  sword,  let  him  go 
sell 

His  clothes  and  buy  one.  That  which 
hath  been  written 

Must  be  accomplished  now  : He  hath 
poured  out 

His  soul  even  unto  death  ; he  hath 
been  numbered 

With  the  transgressors,  and  himself 
hath  borne 

The  sin  of  many,  and  made  intercession 

For  the  transgressors.  And  here  have 
an  end 

The  things  concerning  me. 

Peter.  Behold,  O Lord, 

Behold,  here  are  two  swords  I 
Christus.  It  is  enough. 


IV. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  GETH- 
SEMANE. 

Christus.  My  spirit  is  exceeding 
sorrowful 

Even  unto  death  1 Tarry  ye  here  and 
watch. 

{He  goes  apart.) 

Peter.  Under  this  ancient  olive-tree, 
that  spreads 

Its  broad  centennial  branches  like  a 
tent. 

Let  us  lie  down  and  rest. 

John.  What  are  those  torches. 

That  glimmer  on  Brook  Kedron  there 
below  us  ? 

James.  It  is  some  marriage  feast; 
the  joyful  maidens 

Go  out  to  meet  the  bridegroom. 

Peter.  I am  weary. 

The  struggles  of  this  day  have  over- 
come me. 

{They  sleep.) 

Christus  {falling  on  his  face).  Fa- 
ther ! all  things  are  possible  to 
thee,  — 

O let  this  cup  pass  from  me  ! Never- 
theless 

Not  as  I will,  but  as  thou  wilt,  be  done  ! 

{Returning  to  the  Disciples.) 


54 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


What ! could  ye  not  watch  with  me  for 
one  hour? 

0 watch  and  pray,  that  ye  may  enter 

not 

Into  temptation.  For  the  spirit  indeed 

Is  willing,  but  the  flesh  is  weak  ! 

John.  Alas ! 

It  is  for  sorrow  that  our  eyes  are 
heavy.  — 

1 see  again  the  glimmer  of  those  torches 

Among  the  olives ; they  are  coming 

hither. 

James  Outside  the  garden  w'all  the 
path  divides  ; 

Surely  they  come  not  hither. 

{They  sleep  again.^ 

Chrisltts  (as  before').  O my  F ather  ! 

If  this  cup  may  not  pass  away  from 
me. 

Except  1 drink  of  it,  thy  will  be  done. 

{Returning  to  the  Disciples.) 

Sleep  on ; and  take  your  rest ! 

John.  Beloved  Master, 

Alas  ! we  know  not  what  to  answer 
thee  ! 

It  is  for  sorrow  that  our  eyes  are 
heavy. — 

Behold,  the  torches  now  encompass  us. 

James.  They  do  but  go  about  the 
garden  wall. 

Seeking  for  some  one,  or  for  something 
lost. 

( They  sleep  again.) 

Christus  {as  before).  If  this  cup  may 
not  pass  away  from  me. 

Except  I drink  of  it,  thy  will  be  done. 

{Returning  to  the  Disciples  i) 

It  is  enough  ! Behold,  the  Son  of 
Man 

Hath  been  betrayed  into  the  hands  of 
sinners  ! 

The  hour  is  come.  Rise  up,  let  us  be 
going  ; 

For  he  that  shall  betray  me  is  at  hand. 

John.  Ah  me  ! See,  from  his  fore- 
head, in  the  torchlight. 

Great  drops  of  blood  are  falling  to  the 
ground  ! 

Peter.  What  lights  are  these? 
What  torches  glare  and  glisten 


Upon  the  swords  and  armor  of  these 
men  ? 

And  there  among  them  Judas  Iscariot ! 

{He  smites  the  servant  of  the  High- 
Priest  with  his  sword.) 
Christus.  Put  up  thy  sw'ord  into  its 
sheath  ; for  they 

That  takesthe  sword  shall  perish  with 
the  sword. 

The  cup  my  Father  hath  given  me  to 
drink. 

Shall  I not  drink  it?  Think’st  thou 
that  I cannot 

Pray  to  my  Father,  and  that  he  shall 
give  me 

More  than  twelve  legions  of  angels 
presently  ? 

Judas  {to  Christus,  kissing  him). 

Hail,  Master  ! hail ! 

Christus.  Friend,  wherefore  art  thou 
come  ? 

Whom  seek  ye  ? 

Captain  of  the  Temple.  Jesus  of 
Nazareth. 

Christ?is.  I am  he. 

Are  ye  come  hither  as  against  a thief. 

With  swords  and  staves  to  take  me  ? 
\Vhen  I daily 

Was  with  you  in  the  Temple,  ye 
stretched  forth 

No  hands  to  take  me  ! But  this  is 
your  hour. 

And  this  the  power  of  darkness.  If  ye 
seek  ^ 

Me  only,  let  these  others  go  their  way. 

{The  Disciples  depart.  Christus  is 
bound  and  led  away.  A certain 
young  man  follows  him,  having  a 
linen  cloth  cast  about  his  body.  They 
lay  hold  of  hbn,  and  the  young  ma7i 
Jle^s  from  them  naked.) 

V. 

THE  PALACE  OF  CAIAPHAS. 

Pharisees.  What  do  we  ? Clearly 
something  must  w'e  do. 

For  this  man  worketh  many  miracles. 
Caiaphas.  I am  informed  that  he  is 
a mechanic ; 

A carpenter’s  son  ; a Galilean  peasant. 

Keeping  disreputable  company. 


THE  THIRD  PASSOVER. 


53 


Pharisees.  The  people  say  that  here 
in  Bethany 

He  hath  raised  up  a certain  Lazarus, 
Who  had  been  dead  three  days. 

Caiaphas.  _ Impossible  ! 

There  is  no  resurrection  of  the  dead  ; 
This  Lazarus  should  be  taken,  and  put 
to  death 

As  an  impostor.  If  this  Galilean 
Would  be  content  to  stay  in  Galilee, 
And  preach  in  country  towns,  I should 
not  heed  him. 

But  when  he  comes  up  to  Jerusalem 
Riding  in  triumph,  as  I am  informed, 
And  drives  the  money-changers  from 
the  Temple, 

That  is  another  matter. 

Pharisees.  If  we  thus 

Let  him  alone,  all  will  believe  on  him. 
And  then  the  Romans  come  and  take 
away 

Our  place  and  nation. 

Caiaphas.  Ye  know  nothing  at  all. 
Simon  Ben  Camith,  my  great  predeces- 

On  whom  be  peace  ! would  have  dealt 
presently 

With  such  a demagogue.  I shall  no 
less. 

The  man  must  die.  Do  ye  consider 
not 

It  is  expedient  that  one  man  should  die. 
Not  the  whole  nation  perish?  What 
is  death? 

It  differeth  from  sleep  but  in  duration. 
We  sleep  and  wake  again  ; an  hour  or 
two 

Later  or  earlier,  and  it  matters  not. 
And  if  we  never  wake  it  matters 
not  ; 

When  we  are  in  our  graves  we  are  at 
peace. 

Nothing  can  wake  us  or  disturb  us 
more. 

There  is  no  resurrection. 

Pharisees  {aside).  O most  faithful 
Disciple  of  Hircanus  Maccabaeus, 

Will  nothing  but  complete  annihilation 
Comfort  and  satisfy  thee  ? 

Caiaphas.  While  ye  are  talking 
And  plotting,  and  contriving  how  to 
take  him. 

Fearing  the  people,  and  so  doing 
naught. 


I,  who  fear  not  the  people,  have  been 
acting  ; 

Have  taken  this  Prophet,  this  young 
Nazarene, 

Who  by  Beelzebub  the  Prince  of  devils 

Casteth  out  devils,  and  doth  raise  the 
dead. 

That  might  as  well  be  dead,  and  left 
in  peace. 

Annas  my  father-in-law  hath  sent  him 
hither. 

I hear  the  guard.  Behold  your  Gali- 
lean 1 

(Christus  is  brotight  in  bound. ) 

Servant  {in  the  vestibule!)  Why  art 
thou  up  so  late,  my  pretty  dam- 
sel ? 

Damsel.  Why  art  thou  up  so  early, 
pretty  man  ? 

It  is  not  cock-crow  yet,  and  art  thou 
stirring  ? 

Servant.  What  brings  thee  here  ? 

Damsel.  What  brings  the  rest  of  you? 

Servant.  Come  here  and  warm  thy 
hands. 

Damsel  {to  Peter.)  Art  thou  not  also 

One  of  this  man’s  disciples? 

Peter.  I am  not. 

Damsel.  Now  surely  thou  art  also 
one  of  them  ; 

Thou  art  a Galilean,  and  thy  speech 

Bewrayeth  thee. 

Peter.  Woman,  I know  him  not  ! 

Caiaphas  {to  Christus,  ht  the  Hall). 
Who  art  thou  ? Tell  us  plainly 
of  thyself 

And  of  thy  doctrines,  and  of  thy  disci- 
ples. 

Christus.  Lo,  I have  spoken  openly 
to  the  world,  _ 

I have  taught  ever  in  the  Synagogue, 

And  in  the  Temple,  where  the  Jews  re- 
sort : 

In  secret  have  said  nothing.  Where- 
fore then 

Askest  thou  me  of  this  ? Ask  them 
that  heard  me 

What  I have  said  to  them.  Behold 
they  know 

What  I have  said  ! 

Officer  {striking  him).  What,  fellow  ! 
answerest  thou 

The  High-Priest  so  ? 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


Christus.  If  I have  spoken  evil, 

Bear  witness  of  the  evil ; but  if  well, 

Whysmitest  thou  me? 

Caiapkas.  Where  are  the  witnesses  ? 

Let  them  say  what  they  know. 

The  two  False  Witnesses.  We 
heard  him  say  : 

I will  destroy  this  Temple  made  with 
hands. 

And  will  within  three  days  build  up 
another 

Made  without  hands. 

Scribes  and  Pharisees.  He  is  o’er- 
whelmed  with  shame 

And  cannot  answer ! 

Caiaphas.  Dost  thou  answer  nothing? 

What  is  this  thing  they  witness  here 
against  thee  ? 

Scribes  and  Pharisees.  He  holds 
his  peace. 

Caiaphas.  Tell  us,  art  thou  the 
Christ? 

I do  adjure  thee  by  the  living  God, 

Tell  us,  art  thou  indeed  the  Christ? 

Christus.  I am. 

Hereafter  shall  ye  see  the  Son  of  Man 

Sit  on  the  right  hand  of  the  power  of 
God, 

And  come  in  clouds  of  heaven  ! 

Caiaphas  {rending  his  clothes).  It  is 
enough. 

He  hath  spoken  blasphemy  ! What 
further  need 

Have  we  of  witnesses?  Now  ye  have 
heard 

His  blasphemy.  What  think  ye  ? Is 
he  guilty  ? 

Scribes  and  Pharisees.  Guilty  of 
death  ! 

Kinsman  of  Malchus  {to  Peter,  in 
the  vestihde.)  Surely  I know  thy 
face. 

Did  I not  see  thee  in  the  garden  with 
him  ? 

Peter.  How  couldst  thou  see  me  ? I 
swear  unto  thee 

I do  not  know  this  man  of  whom  ye 
speak  ! 

{The  cock  crows.) 

Hark  ! the  cock  crows  ! That  sorrow- 
ful, pale  face 

Seeks  for  me  in  the  crowd,  and  looks 
at  me, 


As  if  he  would  remind  me  of  those 
words  : 

Ere  the  cock  crow  thou  shalt  deny  me 
thrice  ! 

{Goes  out  weeping.  Christus  is  blind- 
folded and  hiffeted.) 

An  Officer  {striking  him  with  his 
palm).  Prophesy  unto  us,  thou 
Christ,  thou  Prophet ! 

Who  is  it  smote  thee  ? 

Caiaphas.  Lead  him  unto  Pilate  I 


VI. 

PONTIUS  PILATE. 

Pilate.  Wholly  incomprehensible 
to  me. 

Vainglorious,  obstinate,  and  given  up 
To  unintelligible  old  traditions, 

And  proud,  and  self-conceited  are  these 
Jews  ! 

Not  long  ago,  I marched  the  legions 
down 

From  Csesarea  to  their  winter-quarters 
Here  in  Jerusalem,  with  the  effigies 
Of  Caesar  on  their  ensigns,  and  a 
tumult 

Arose  among  these  Jews,  because  their 
Law 

Forbids  the  making  of  all  images  ! 
They  threw  themselves  upon  the 
ground  with  wild 

Expostulations,  bared  their  necks,  and 
cried 

That  they  would  sooner  die  than  have 
their  Law 

Infringed  in  any  manner:  as  if  Numa 
Were  not  as  great  as  Moses,  and  the 
.Laws 

Of  the  Twelve  Tables  as  their  Penta- 
teuch ! 

And  then,  again,  when  I desired  to 
span 

Their  valley  with  an  aqueduct,  and 
bring 

A rushing  river  in  to  wash  the  city 
And  its  inhabitants,  — they  all  rebelled 
As  if  they  had  been  herds  of  unwashed 
swine  ! 

Thousands  and  thousands  of  them  got 
together 


THE  THIRD  PASSOVER. 


57 


And  raised  so  great  a clamor  round  my 
doors, 

That,  fearing  violent  outbreak,  I de- 
sisted. 

And  left  them  to  their  wallowing  in  the 
mire. 

And  now  here  comes  the  reverend 
Sanhedrim 

Of  lawyers,  priests,  and  Scribes  and 
Pharisees 

Like  old  and  toothless  mastiffs,  that 
can  bark, 

But  caiinot  bite,  howling  their  accusa- 
tions 

Against  a mild  enthusiast,  who  hath 
preached 

I know  not  what  new  doctrine,  being 
King 

Of  some  vague  kingdom  in  the  other 
world, 

That  hath  no  more  to  do  with  Rome 
and  Csesar 

Than  I have  with  the  patriarch  Abra- 
ham ! 

Finding  this  man  to  be  a Galilean, 

I sent  him  straight  to  Herod,  and  I 
hope 

That  is  the  last  of  it ; but  if  it  be  not, 

I still  have  power  to  pardon  and  re- 
lease him. 

As  is  the  custom  at  the  Passover, 

And  so  accommodate  the  matter 
_ smoothly, 

Seeming  to  yield  to  them,  yet  saving 
him  ; 

A prudent  and  sagacious  policy 

For  Roman  Governors  in  the  Provinces. 

Incomprehensible,  fanatic  people  ! 

Ye  have  a God,  who  seemeth  like  your- 
selves 

Incomprehensible,  dwelling  apart, 

Majestic,  cloud-encompassed,  clothed 
in  darkness  ! 

One  whom  ye  fear,  but  love  not ; yet 
ye  have 

No  Goddesses  to  soften  your  stern 
lives. 

And  make  you  tender  unto  human 
weakness. 

While  we  of  Rome  have  everywhere 
around  us 

Our  amiable  divinities,  that  haunt 


The  woodlands,  and  the  waters,  and 
frequent 

Our  households,  with  their  sweet  and 
gracious  presence  ! 

I will  go  in,  and  while  these  Jews  are 
wrangling. 

Read  my  Ovidius  on  the  Art  of  Love. 


VII. 

BARABBAS  IN  PRISON. 

Barabhas  {to  his  fellow-prisoners). 

Barabbas  is  my  name, 

Barabbas,  the  Son  of  Shame, 

Is  the  meaning  I suppose  ; 

I ’m  no  better  than  the  best. 

And  wliether  worse  than  the  rest 
Of  my  fellow-men,  who  knows  ? 

I was  once,  to  say  it  in  brief, 

A highwayman,  a robber  chief. 

In  the  open  light  of  day. 

So  much  I am  free  to  confess  ; 

But  all  men,  more  or  less. 

Are  robbers  in  their  w-ay. 

From  my  cavern  in  the  crags, 

I’rom  my  lair  of  leaves  and  flags, 

I could  see,  like  ants,  below, 

The  camels  with  their  load 
Of  merchandise,  on  the  road 
That  leadeth  to  Jericho. 

And  I struck  them  unaware. 

As  an  eagle  from  the  air 
Drops  down  upon  bird  or  beast ; 
And  I had  my  heart’s  desire 
Of  the  merchants  of  Sidon  and  Tyre, 
And  Damascus  and  the  East. 

But  it  is  not  for  that  I fear  ; 

It  is  not  for  that  I am  here 
In  these  iron  fetters  bound  ; 

Sedition  ! that  is  the  word 
That  Pontius  Pilate  heard. 

And  he  liketh  not  the  sound. 

What,  think  ye,  would  he  care 
For  a Jew  slain  here  or  there. 

Or  a plundered  caravan  ? 

But  Caesar  ! — ah,  that  is  a crime, 

To  the  uttermost  end  of  time 
Shall  not  be  forgiven  to  man. 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


S8 

Therefore  was  Herod  wroth 
With  Matthias  Margaloth, 

And  burned  him  for  a show  ! 
Therefore  his  wrath  did  smite 
Judas  the  Gaulonite, 

And  his  followers,  as  ye  know. 

For  that  cause,  and  no  more. 

Am  I here,  as  I said  before  ; 

For  one  unlucky  night, 

J ucundus,  the  captain  of  horse. 

Was  upon  us  with  all  his  force, 

And  I was  caught  in  the  fight. 

I might  have  fled  with  the  rest. 

But  my  dagger  was  in  the  breast 
Of  a Roman  equerry  ; 

As  we  rolled  there  in  the  street, 
They  bound  me,  hands  and  feet ; 

And  this  is  the  end  of  me. 

Who  cares  for  death?  Not  I ! 

A thousand  times  I would  die. 
Rather  than  suffer  wrong  ! 

Already  those  women  of  mine 
Are  mixing  the  myrrh  and  the  wine  ; 
I shall  not  be  with  you  long. 


VIII. 

ECCE  HOMO. 

Pilate  {on  the  Tessellated  Pavement 
in  front  of  his  Palace').  Y e have 
brought  unto  me  this  man,  as  one 

Who  doth  pervert  the  people  ; and  be- 
hold ! 

I have  examined  him,  and  found  no 
fault 

Touching  the  things  whereof  ye  do 
accuse  him. 

No,  nor  yet  Herod;  fori  sent  you  to  him. 

And  nothing  worthy  of  death  hefindeth 
in  him. 

Ye  have  a custom  at  the  Passover, 

That  one  condemned  to  death  shall  be 
released. 

Whom  will  ye,  then,  that  I release  to 
you? 

Jesus  Barabbas,  called  the  Son  of 
Shame, 

Or  Jesus,  Son  of  Joseph,  called  the 
Christ? 

The  People  {shouting).  Not  this 
man,  but  Barabbas  ! 


Pilate.  What  then  will  ye 

That  I should  do  with  him  that  is 
called  Christ? 

The  People.  Crucify  him  ! 

Pilate.  Why,  what  evil  hath  he  done? 
Lo,  I have  found  no  cause  of  death  in 
him  ; 

I will  chastise  him,  and  then  let  him  go. 

The  People  {more  vehemently).  Cru- 
cify him  ! crucify  him  ! 

A Messenger  {to  Pilate).  Thy  wife 
sends 

This  message  to  thee  : — Have  thou 
naught  to  do 

With  that  just  man  ; for  I this  day  in 
dreams 

Have  suffered  many  things  because  of 
him. 

Pilate  {aside).  The  Cods  speak  to 
us  in  our  dreams  ! I tremble 
At  what  I have  to  do  ! O Claudia, 
How  shall  I save  him  ? Yet  one  effort 
more. 

Or  he  must  perish  ! 

{Washes  his  hu7ids  before  themi) 

I am  innocent 

Of  the  blood  of  this  just  person  ; see  ye 
to  it ! 

The  People.  Let  his  blood  be  on  us 
and  on  our  children  ! 

Voices  {within  the  Palace)  Put  on 
thy  royal  robes  ; put  on  thy  crown. 
And  take  thy  sceptre  ! Hail,  thou 
King  of  the  Jews  ! 

Pilate.  I bring  him  forth  to  you,  that 
ye  may  know 

I find  no  fault  in  him.  Behold  the  man  ! 
(Christus  is  led  in,  with  the  purple 
robe  and  crown  of  thorns.) 

Chief  Priests  a>td  Officers.  Crucify 
Iiim  1 crucify  him  ! 

Pilate.  Take  ye  him  ; 

I find  no  fault  in  him. 

Chief  Priests.  We  have  a Law, 
And  by  our  Law  he  ought  to  die;  because 
He  made  himself  to  be  the  Son  of  Cod. 

Pilate  {aside).  Ah  ! there  are  Sons 
of  God,  and  demi-gods 
More  than  ye  know,  ye  ignorant  High- 
Priests  I 

{To  Christus.) 

Whence  art  thou  ? 


THE  THIRD  PASSOVER. 


59 


Chief  Priests.  Crucify  him  ! crucify 
him  ! 

Pilate  {to  Christns).  Dost  thou  not  an- 
swer me  ? Dost  thou  not  know 
That  I have  power  enough  to  crucify 
thee  ? 

That  I have  also  power  to  set  thee  free? 

Chrishis.  Thou  couldest  have  no 
power  at  all  against  me 
Except  that  it  were  given  thee  from 
above  : 

Therefore  hath  he  that  sent  me  unto  thee 
The  greater  sin. 

Chief  Priests.  If  thou  let  this  man.  go, 
Thou  art  not  Caesar’s  friend.  For  who- 
soever 

Maketh  himself  a King,  speaks  against 
Caesar. 

Pilate.  Ye  Jews,  behold  your  King  ! 

Chief  Priests.  Away  with  him  ! 

Crucify  him  ! 

Pilate.  Shall  I crucify  your.  King  ? 

Chief  Priests.  We  have  no  King  but 
Caesar  ! 

Pilate-  Take  him,  then. 

Take  him,  ye  cruel  and  bloodthirsty 
Priests, 

More  merciless  than  the  plebeian  mob, 
Who  pity  and  spare  the  fainting  gladia- 
tor 

Blood-stained  in  Roman  amphithea- 
tres, — 

Take  him,  and  crucify  him  if  ye  will ; 
But  if  the  immortal  Gods  do  ever  min- 
gle 

With  the  affairs  of  mortals,  which  I 
. doubt  not. 

And  hold  the  attribute  of  justice  dear, 
They  will  commission  the  Eumenides 
To  scatter  you  to  the  four  winds  of  heav- 
en, 

Exacting  tear  for  tear,  and  blood  for 
blood. 

Here,  take  ye  this  inscription,  Priests, 
and  nail  it 

Upon  the  cross,  above  your  victim’s 
head : 

Jesus  of  Nazareth,  King  of  the  Jews. 

Chief  Priests.  Nay,  we  entreat! 
write  not,  the  King  of  the  Jews  ; 
But  that  he  said  : I am  the  King  of 
the  Jews! 

Pilate.  Enough.  What  I have  writ- 
ten, I have  written  ! 


IX. 

ACELDAMA. 

Judas  Iscariot.  Lost  ! lost ! forever 
lost  ! I have  betrayed 

The  innocent  blood  ! O God  ! if  thou 
art  love. 

Why  didst  thou  leave  me  naked  to  the 
tempter  ? 

Why  didst  thou  not  commission  thy 
swift  lightning 

To  strike  me  dead?  or  why  did  I not 
perish 

With  those  by  Herod  slain,  the  inno- 
cent children 

Who  went  wdth  playthings  in  their  little 
hands 

Into  the  darkness  of  the  other  world. 

As  if  to  bed?  Or  wherefore  w'as  I born, 

If  thou  in  thy  foreknowledge  didst  per- 
ceive 

All  that  I am,  and  all  that  I mu.stbe? 

I know  I am  not  generous,  am  not  gentle 

Like  other  men  ; but  I have  tried  to  be. 

And  I have  failed.  I thought  by  fol- 
lowing Him, 

I should  grow  like  him  ; but  the  un- 
clean spirit 

That  from  my  childhood  up  hath  tor- 
tured me 

Hath  been  too  cunning  and  too  strong 
for  me. 

Am  r to  blame  for  this?  Am  I to 
blame 

Because  I cannot  love,  and  ne’er  have 
known 

The  love  of  woman  or  the  love  of  chil- 
dren ? 

It  is  a curse  and  a fatality, 

A maik,  that  hath  been  set  upon  my 
forehead. 

That  none  shall  slay  me,  for  it  were  a 
mercy 

That  I were  dead,  or  never  had  been 
born. 

Too  late  ! too  late  ! I shall  not  see  him 
more 

Among  the  living.  That  sweet,  patient 
face 

Will  never  more  rebuke  me,  nor  those 
lips 

Repeat  the  words : One  of  you  shall  be- 
tray me  1 


6o 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


It  stung  me  into  madness.  How  I 
loved, 

Yet  bated  him  ! But  in  the  other  world  ! 

I will  be  there  before  him,  and  will  wait 

Until  he  comes  and  fall  down  on  my 
knees 

And  kiss  his  feet,  imploring  pardon, 
pardon  ! 

I heard  him  say  : All  sins  shall  be  for- 
given, _ 

Except  the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost. 

That  shall  not  be  forgiven  in  this  world, 

Nor  in  the  world  to  come.  Is  that  my 
sin  ? 

Have  I offended  so  there  is  no  hope 

Here  nor  hereafter?  That  I soon  shall 
know. 

O God,  have  mercy  ! Christ  have  mer- 
cy on  me  ! 

{Throws  himself  headlong  from  the 
cliff.) 


X. 

THE  THREE  CROSSES. 

Manahem,  the  Essenian.  Three 
crosses  in  this  noonday  night  up- 
lifted. 

Three  human  figures,  that  in  mortal 
pain 

Gleam  white  against  the  supernatural 
darkness ; 

Two  thieves,  that  writhe  in  torture,  and 
between  them 

The  suffering  Messiah,  the  Son  of  Jo- 
seph, 

Ay,  the  Messiah  Triumphant,  Son  of 
David  ! 

A crown  of  thorns  on  that  dishonored 
head  ! 

Those  hands  that  healed  the  sick  now 
pierced  with  nails, 

Those  feet  that  wandered  homeless 
through  the  world 

Now  crossed  and  bleeding,  and  at  rest 
forever ! . 

And  the  three  faithful  Maries,  over- 
whelmed 

By  this  great  sorrow,  kneeling,  praying, 
weeping  ! 


O Joseph  Caiaphas,  thou  great  High- 
Priest, 

How  wilt  thou  answer  for  this  deed  of 
blood  ? 

Scribes  and  Elders.  Thou  that  de- 
stroy est  the  Temple,  and  dost 
build  it 

In  three  days,  save  thyself ; and  if  thou 
be 

The  Son  of  God,  come  down  now  from 
the  cross. 

Chief  Priests.  Others  he  saved,  him- 
self he  cannot  save  ! 

Let  Christ  the  King  of  Israel  descend, 

That  we  may  see  and  believe  ! 

Scribes  and  Elders.  In  God 

he  trusted ; 

Let  him  deliver  him,  if  he  will  have  him, 

And  we  will  then  believe. 

Christus.  Father  ! forgive  them  ; 

They  know  not  what  they  do. 

The  Impenitent  Thief.  Iflhou 
be  Christ, 

O save  thyself  and  us  ! 

The  Penitent  Thief  Remember  me. 

Lord,  when  thou  comest  into  thine 
own  kingdom. 

Christus.  This  day  shalt  thou  be 
with  me  in  Paradise. 

Manahem.  Golgotha ! Golgotha ! 
O the  pain  and  darkness  ! 

0 the  uplifted  cross,  that  shall  forever 

Shine  through  the  darkness,  and  shall 

conquer  pain 

By  the  triumphant  memory  of thishour  ! 

Simon  Magus.  O Nazarene  ! I find 
thee  here  at  last  ! 

Thou  art  no  more  a phantom  unto  me  ! 

This  is  the  end  of  one  who  called  him- 
self 

The  Son  of  God  ! Such  is  the  fate  of 
those 

Who  preach  new  doctrines.  ’T  is  not 
what  he  did. 

But  what  he  said,  hath  brought  him 
unto  this. 

1 will  speak  evil  of  no  dignitaries. 

This  is  my  hour  of  triumph,  Nazarene  ! 

The  Young  Rtder.  This  is  the  end 
of  him  who  said  to  me  : 

Sell  that  thou  hast,  and  give  unto  the 
poor  ! 

This  is  the  treasure  in  heaven  he  prom- 
ised  me  1 


THE  THIRD  PASSOVER. 


Christus.  Eloi,  Eloi,  lama  sabac- 
thani ! 

A Soldier  (.preparing  the  hjyssop). 

He  calleth  for  Elias  ! 

Another.  Nay,  let  be  ! 

See  if  Elias  now  will  come  to  save  him  ! 
Christus.  I thirst. 

A Soldier.  Give  him  the  wormwood  ! 
Christus  (with  a loud  cry,  bowing  his 
head).  It  is  finished  ! 


XI. 

THE  TWO  MARIES. 

Mary  Magdalene-  We  have  arisen 
early,  yet  the  sun 

O’ertakes  us  ere  we  reach  the  sepul- 
chre, 

To  wrap  the  body  of  our  blessed  Lord 

With  our  sweet  spices. 

Mary,  mother  of  James.  Lo,  this 
is  the  garden, 

And  yonder  is  the  sepulchre.  But  who 

Shall  roll  away  the  stone  for  us  to 
enter  ? 

Mary  Magdalene.  It  hath  been 
rolled  away  ! The  sepulchre 

Is  open  ! Ah,  who  hath  been  here  be- 
fore us, 

When  we  rose  early,  wishing  to  be  first? 

Mary,  mother  of  James.  I am  af- 
frighted ! 

Mary  Magdalene.  Hush  1 I will 
stoop  down 

And  look  within.  There  is  a young 
man  sitting 

On  the  right  side,  clothed  in  a long 
white  garment  ! 

It  is  an  angel  ! 

The  Angel.  Fear  not ; ye  are  seek- 
ing 

Jesus  of  Nazareth,  which  was  crucified. 

Why  do  ye  seek  the  living  among  the 
dead  ? 

He  is  no  longer  here  ; he  is  arisen  ! 

Come  see  the  place  where  the  Lord  lay  ! 
Remember 

How  he  spake  unto  you  in  Galilee, 

Saying  : The  Son  of  Man  must  be  de- 
livered 

Into  the  hands  of  sinful  men  ; by  them 

Be  crucified,  and  the  third  day  rise 
again  1 


But  go  your  way,  and  say  to  his  disci- 
ples. 

He  goeth  before  you  into  Galilee  ; 

There  shall  ye  see  him  as  he  said  to  you. 

Mary,  mother  of  James.  I will  go 
swiftly  for  them. 

Mary  Magdalene  {alone,  weeping). 
They  have  taken 

My  Lord  away  from  me,  and  now  1 
know  not 

Where  they  have  laid  him  ! Who  is 
_ there  to  tell  me  ? 

This  is  the  gardener.  Surely  he  must 
know. 

Christus.  Woman,  why  weepest 
thou?  Whom  seekest  thou ? 

Mary  Magdalene.  They  have  taken 
my  Lord  away ; I cannot  find 
him. 

O Sir,  if  thou  have  borne  him  hence,  I 
pray  thee 

Tell  me  where  thou  hast  laid  him. 

Christus.  Mary ! 

Mary  Magdalene.  Rabboni  1 


XII. 

THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE. 

Nathanael  {in  the  ship).  All  is  now 
ended. 

John.  Nay,  he  is  arisen. 

I ran  unto  the  tomb,  and  stooping  down  ' 

Looked  in,  and  saw  the  linen  grave- 
clothes  lying. 

Yet  dared  not  enter. 

Peter.  I went  in,  and  saw 

The  napkin  that  had  been  about  his 
head. 

Not  lying  with  the  other  linen  clothes. 

But  wrapped  together  in  a separate 
place. 

Thomas.  And  I have  seen  him.  I 
have  seen  the  print 

Of  nails  upon  his  hands,  and  thrust 
my  hands 

Into  his  side.  I know  he  is  arisen  ; 

But  where  are  now  the  kingdom  and 
the  glory 

He  promised  *unto  us?  We  have  all 
dreamed 

That  we  were  princes,  and  we  wake  to 
find 

We  are  but  fishermen. 


62 


THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY. 


Peter.  Who  should  have  been 

Fishers  of  men  ! 

John.  We  have  come  back  again 

To  the  old  life,  the  peaceful  life, 
among 

The  white  towns  of  the  Galilean  lake. 

Peter.  They  seem  to  me  like  silent 
sepulchres 

In  the  gray  light  of  morning  ! The 
old  life, 

Yea,  the  old  life  ! for  we  have  toiled  all 
night 

And  have  caught  nothing. 

John.  Do  ye  see  a man 

Standing  upon  the  beach  and  beckon- 
? 

’T  is  like  an  apparition.  He  hath 
kindled 

A fire  of  coals,  and  seems  to  wait  for  us. 

He  calleth. 

Christ  us  {.from  the  shore').  Children, 
have  ye  any  meat? 

Peter.  Alas ! We  have  caught 
nothing. 

Christus.  _ Cast  the  net 

On  the  right  side  of  the  ship,  and  ye 
shall  find. 

Peter.  How  that  reminds  me  of  the 
days  gone  by, 

And  one  who  said  : Launch  out  into  the 
deep. 

And  cast  your  nets  1 

Nathanael.  We  have  but  let 

them  down 

And  they  are  filled,  so  that  we  cannot 
draw  them  ! 

Johti.  It  is  the  Lord  ! 

Peter  {girding  his  fisher's  coat  about 
hun).  He  said ; When  I am 
risen 

I will  go  before  you  into  Galilee  ! 

{He  casts  himself  into  the  lake.) 

John-  There  is  no  fear  in  love  ; for 
perfect  love 

Casteth  out  fear.  Now  then,  if  ye  are 
men. 

Put  forth  your  strength  ; we  are  not  far 
from  shore  ; 

The  net  is  heavy,  but  breaks  not.  All 
is  safe. 

Peter  {on  the  shore)-  Dear  Lord  ! I 
heard  thy  voice  and  could  not 
wait. 


Let  me  behold  thy  face,  and  kiss  thy 
feet ! 

Thou  art  not  dead,  thou  livest ! Again 
I see  thee. 

Pardon!  dear  Lord  1 I am  a sinful 
man  ; 

I have  denied  thee  thrice.  Have 
mercy  on  me  ! 

The  Others  {coming  to  land).  Dear 
Lord ! stay  with  us  ! cheer  us  ! 
comfort  us  ! 

Lo  ! we  again  have  found  thee  ! Leave 
us  not ! 

Christus.  Bring  hither  of  the  fish 
that  ye  have  caught, 

And  come  and  eat. 

John.  Behold  ! he  break^th  bread 
As  he  was  wont.  From  his  own  bless- 
ed hands 
Again  we  take  it. 

Christus.  Simon,  son  of  Jonas, 
Lovest  thou  me,  more  than  these 
others? 

Peter.  Yea, 

More,  Lord,  than  all  men  ; even  more 
than  these. 

Thou  knowest  that  I love  thee. 

Christus.  Feed  my  lambs. 

Tho77ias  {aside).  How  more  than 
we  do?  He  remaineth  ever 
Self-confident  and  boastful  as  before. 
Nothing  will  cure  him. 

Christus.  Simon,  son  of  Jonas, 

Lovest  thou  me  ? 

Peter.  Yea,  dearest  Lord,  I love  thee. 
Thou  knowest  that  I love  thee. 

Christus.  Feed  my  sheep. 

Thotnas  {aside).  Again,  the  self-same 
question,  and  the  answer 
Repeated  with  more  vehemence.  Can 
the  Master 

Doubt  if  we  love  him  ? 

Christus.  Simon,  son  of  Jonas, 

Lovest  thou  me  ? 

Peter  {grieved).  Dear  Lord  ! thou 
knowest  all  things. 

Thou  knowest  that  I love  thee. 

Christus.  Feed  my  sheep. 

When  thou  wast  young  thou  girdedst 
thyself,  and  walkedst 
Whither  thou  wouldst ; but  when  thou 
shalt  be  old. 

Thou  shalt  stretch  forth  thy  hands,  and 
other  men 


THE  THIRD  PASSOVER. 


Shall  gird  and  carry  thee  whither  thou 
wouldst  not. 

Follow  thou  me! 

John  {aside).  It  is  a prophecy 

Of  what  death  he  shall  die. 

Peter  {pointing  to  John).  Tell  me,  O 
Lord, 

And  what  shall  this  man  do  ? 

Christus.  And  if  I will 


63 

He  tarry  till  I come,  what  is  it  to  thee  ? 
Follow  thou  me  ! 

Peter.  Yea,  I will  follow  thee,  dear 
Lord  and  Master  ! 

Will  follow  thee  through  fasting  and 
temptation. 

Through  all  thine  agony  and  bloody 
sweat, 

Thy  cross  and  passion,  even  unto  death! 


EPILOGUE. 


SYMBOLUM  APOSTOLORUM. 

Peter.  I believe  in  God  the  Father 
Almighty  : 

yohn.  Maker  of  Heaven  and  Earth  ; 

James.  And  in  Jesus  Christ  his 
only  Son,  our  Lord  ; 

Andrew.  Who  was  conceived  by 
the  Holy  Ghost,  born  of  the 
Virgin  Mary  ; 

Philip.  Suffered  under  Pontius  Pi- 
late, was  crucified,  dead  and 
buried ; 

Thomas.  And  the  third  day  he  rose 
again  from  the  dead ; 


Bartholomew.  He  ascended  into 
Heaven,  and  sitteth  on  the  right 
hand  of  God,  the  Father  Al- 
mighty ; 

Matthew.  From  thence  he  shall 
come  to  judge  the  quick  and  the 
dead. 

James.,  the  Son  of  Alpheus.  I be- 
lieve in  the  Holy  Ghost;  the  holy 
Catholic  Church  ; 

Simon  Zelotes.  The  communion  of 
Saints  ; the  forgiveness  of  sins  ; 

Jude.  The  resurrection  of  the  body  ; 

Matthias.  And  the  Life  Everlast- 
ing. 


FIRST  INTERLUDE. 

THE  ABBOT  JOACHIM. 


THE  ABBOT  JOACHIM. 


A room  in  the  Convent  of  Flora  in 
Calabria.  Night. 

foachim.  The  wind  is  rising ; it 
seizes  and  shakes 

The  doors  and  window-blinds,  and 
makes 

Mysterious  moanings  in  the  halls  ; 

The  convent-chimneys  seem  almost 
The  trumpets  of  some  heavenly  host, 
Setting  its  watch  upon  our  walls  ! 
Where  it  listeth,  there  it  bloweth  ; 

We  hear  the  sound,  but  no  man 
knoweth 

Whence  it  cometh  or  whither  it  goeth. 
And  thus  it  is  with  the  Holy  Ghost. 

0 breath  of  God  ! O my  delight 
In  many  a vigil  of  the  night, 

Like  the  great  voice  in  Patmos  heard 
By  John,  the  Evangelist  of  the  Word, 

1 hear  thee  behind  me  saying  : Write 
In  a book  the  things  that  thou  hast 

seen. 

The  things  that  are,  and  that  have 
been. 

And  the  things  that  shall  hereafter  be  ! 
This  convent,  on  the  rocky  crest 
Of  the  Calabrian  hills,  to  me 
A Patmos  is  wherein  I rest  ; 

While  round  about  me  like  a sea 
The  white  mists  roll,  and  overflow 
The  world  that  lies  unseen  below 
In  darkness  and  in  mystery. 

Here  in  the  Spirit,  in  the  vast 
Embrace  of  God’s  encircling  arm, 

Am  I uplifted  from  all  harm  ; 

The  world  seems  something  far  away, 
Something  belonging  to  the  Past, 

A hostlery,  a peasant’s  farm. 

That  lodged  me  for  a night  or  day. 


In  which  I care  not  to  remain. 

Nor,  having  left,  to  see  again. 

Thus,  in  the  hollow  of  God’s  hand 
I dwelt  on  sacred  Tabor’s  height, 
When  as  a simple  acolyte 
I journeyed  to  the  Holy  Land, 

A pilgrim  for  my  Master’s  sake, 

And  saw  the  Galilean  Lake, 

And  walked  through  many  a village 
street 

That  once  had  echoed  to  his  feet. 
There  first  I heard  the  great  command. 
The  voice  behind  me  saying  : Write  ! 
And  suddenly  my  soul  became 
Illumined  by  a flash  of  flame, 

That  left  imprinted  on  my  thought 
The  image  I in  vain  had  sought. 

And  which  forever  shall  remain  ; 

As  sometimes  from  these  windows 
high, 

Gazing  at  midnight  on  the  sky 
Black  with  a storm  of  wind  and  rain, 

I have  beheld  a sudden  glare 
Of  lightning  lay  the  landscape  bare. 
With  tower  and  town  and  hill  and  plain 
Distinct,  and  burnt  into  my  brain. 
Never  to  be  effaced  again  ! 

And  I have  written.  These  volumes 
three, 

The  Apocalypse,  the  Harmony 
Of  the  Sacred  Scriptures,  new  and  old. 
And  the  Psalter  with  Ten  Strings,  en- 
{o\d 

Within  their  pages,  all  and  each, 

The  Eternal  Gospel  that  I teach. 

Well  I remember  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven 

Hath  been  likened  to  a little  leaven 


63 


THE  ABBOT  JOACHIM. 


Hidden  in  two  measures  of  meal, 

Until  it  leavened  the  whole  mass  ; 

So  likewise  will  it  come  to  pass 
With  the  doctrine  that  I here  conceal 

Open  and  manifest  to  me 
The  truth  appear^  and  must  be  told  : 
All  sacred  mysteries  are  threefold ; 
Three  Persons  in  the  Trinit)-, 

Three  Ages  of  Humanity, 

And  Holy  Scriptures  likewise  Three, 
Of  Fear,  of  Wisdom,  and  of  Love  ; 
For  Wisdom  that  begins  in  Fear 
Endeth  in  Love  ; the  atmosphere 
In  which  the  soul  delights  to  be. 

And  finds  that  perfect  liberty. 

Which  Cometh  only  from  above. 

In  the  first  Age,  the  early  prime 
And  dawn  of  all  historic  time. 

The  Father  reigned ; and  fece  to  face 
He  spake  with  the  primeval  race. 
Bright  Angels,  on  his  errands  sent. 

Sat  with  the  patriarch  in  his  tent ; 

His  prophets  thundered  in  the  street ; 
His  lightnings  flashed,  his  hail-storms 
beat ; 

In  tempest  and  in  cloud  he  came. 

In  earthquake  and  in  flood  and  flame  ! 
The  fear  of  God  is  in  his  Book ; 

The  pages  of  the  Pentateuch 
Are  full  of  the  terror  of  his  name. 

Then  reigned  the  Son ; his  Covenant 
Was  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  man ; 
With  him  the  reign  of  Law  begm. 

He  was  the  Wisdom  and  the  Word, 
And  sent  his  Angels  Ministrant, 
L'nterrified  and  undeterred. 

To  rescue  souls  forlorn  and  lost. 

The  troubled,  tempted,  tempest-tost. 
To  heal,  to  comfort,  and  to  teach. 

The  fiery  tongues  of  Pentecost 
His  symbols  were,  that  they  should 
preach 

In  every  form  of  human  speech. 

From  continent  to  continent. 

He  is  the  Light  Dirine,  whose  rays 
Across  the  thousand  years  unspent 
Shine  through  the  darkness  of  our  days, 
And  touch  with  their  celestial  fires 
Our  churches  and  our  convent  spires. 
His  Book  is  the  New  Testament. 


These  Ages  now  are  of  Ae  Past ; 

And  the  Third  Age  b^ns  at  last. 

The  coming  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 

The  reign  of  Grace,  the  reign  of  Love, 
Brightens  the  mountain-tops  above. 
And  the  dark  outline  of  the  coast. 
Already  the  whole  land  is  white 
With  convent  walls,  as  if  by  night 
A snow-  had  fallen  on  hill  and  height  : 
Already  fi-om  the  streets  and  marts 
Of  town  and  traffic,  and  low  cares. 

Men  climb  the  consecrated  stairs 
With  w eary  feet,  and  bleeding  hearts  ; 
And  leave  the  world,  and  its  delights. 
Its  passions,  struggles,  and  despairs. 
For  contemplation  and  for  prayers 
In  doister-cells  of  Coenobites. 

Eternal  benedictions  rest 
Upon  thy  name.  Saint  Benedict ! 
Founder  of  convents  in  the  West, 

Who  built  on  Mount  Cassino’s  crest, 

In  the  Land  of  Labor,  thine  eagle’s 
nest ! 

May  I be  found  not  derelict 
In  aught  of  faith  or  godly  fear. 

If  I have  w-ritten,  in  many  a page. 

The  Gospel  of  the  coming  age. 

The  Eternal  Gospel  men  shall  hear. 

O may  I live  resembling  thee. 

And  ffie  at  last  as  thou  hast  died  ; 

So  that  hereafter  men  may  see. 

Within  the  choir,  a form  of  air. 
Standing  with  arms  outstretched  in 
prayer. 

As  one  that  hath  been  crucified  ! 

My  work  is  finished  ; I am  strong 
In  faith  and  hop>e  and  charity  ; 

For  I have  wvitten  the  things  I see. 
The  things  that  have  been  and  shall  be. 
Conscious  of  right,  nor  fearing  wrong  ; 
Because  I am  in  love  with  Love, 

And  the  sole  thing  I hate  is  Hate  ; 

For  Hate  is  death  ; and  Love  is  life, 

A peace,  a splendor  from  above  ; 

And  Hate,  a never-ending  strife, 

A smoke,  a blackness  from  the  abyss 
Where  unclean  serpents  cod  and  hiss  ! 
Love  is  the  Holy  Ghost  wriihin  ; 

Hate  the  unpardonable  sin  ! 

Who  preaches  otherwise  than  this, 
Betrays  his  Master  with  a kiss  ! 


I 


PART  TWO. 

THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


PROLOGUE. 


THE  SPIRE  OF  STRASBURG 
CATHEDRAL. 

Night  and  storm.  Lucifer,  with  the 
Powers  of  the  A ir,  trying  to  tear 
down  the  Cross. 

Lucifer.  Hasten  ! hasten  ! 

O ye  spirits  ! 

From  its  station  drag  the  ponderous 
Cross  of  iron,  that  to  mock  us 
Is  uplifted  high  in  air  ! 

Voices.  O,  we  cannot  ! 

For  around  it 

All  the  Saints  and  Guardian  Angels 
Throng  in  legions  to  protect  it  ; 

They  defeat  us  everywhere  ! 

The  Bells. 

Laudo  Deum  verum ! 

Plebem  voco  ! 

Congrego  clerum  ! 

Lucifer.  Lower  ! lower  ? 

Hover  downward  ! 

Seize  the  loud,  vociferous  bells,  and 
Clashing,  clanging,  to  the  pavement 
Hurl  them  from  their  windy  tower  ! 

Voices.  All  thy  thunders 
Here  are  harmless  ! 

For  these  bells  have  been  anointed, 
And  baptized  with  holy  water  ! 

They  defy  our  utmost  power. 

The  Bells. 

Defunctos  ploro  ! 

Pestem  fugo  ! 

Festa  decoro  ! 

Lucifer.  Shake  the  casements  ! 
Break  the  tinted 

Panes,  that  flame  with  gold  and  crim- 
son ; 

Scatter  them  like  leaves  of  Autumn, 
Swept  away  before  the  blast  1 


Voices.  O,  we  cannot  I 
The  Archangel 

Michael  flames  from  every  window, 
With  the  sword  of  fire  that  drove  us 
Headlong,  out  of  heaven,  aghast ! 

The  Bells. 

Funera  plango  ! 

Fulgura  frango  ! 

Sabbata  pango  1 
Lucifer.  Aim  your  lightnings 
At  the  oaken. 

Massive,  iron-studded  portals  ! 

Sack  the  house  of  God,  and  scatter 
Wide  the  ashes  of  the  dead ! 

Voices.  O,  we  cannot  ! 

The  Apostles 

And  the  Martyrs,  wrapped  in  man- 
tles. 

Stand  as  warders  at  the  entrance, 

Stand  as  sentinels  o’erhead  ! 

The  Bells. 

Excito  lentos ! 

Dissipo  ventos  ! 

Paco  cruentos  ! 

Lucifer.  Baffled  ! baffled  I 
Inefficient,  ^ 

Craven  spirits  ! leave  this  labor 
Unto  Time,  the  great  Destroyer  ! 

Come  away,  ere  night  is  gone  ! 

Voices.  Onward!  onward! 

With  the  night-wind. 

Over  field  and  farm  and  forest. 

Lonely  homestead,  darksome  hamlet, 
Blighting  all  we  breathe  upon  ! 

{They  sweep  away.  Organ  and  Gre- 
gorian Chant.) 

Choir. 

Nocte  surgentes 
Vigilemus  omnes. 


% 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


1. 

The  castle  of  Vautsherg  on  the  Rhine. 
A chamber  in  a tower.  Prince 
Henry,  sitting  alone y ill  and  rest- 
less. Midnight. 

Prince  Henry.  I cannot  sleep ! my 
fervid  brain 

Calls  up  the  vanished  Past  again, 

And  throws  its  misty  splendors  deep 
Into  the  pallid  realms  of  sleep  ! 

A breath  from  that  far-distant  shore 
Comes  freshening  ever  more  and  more 
And  wafts  o’er  intervening  seas 
Sweet  odors  from  the  Hesperides  ! 

A wind,  that  through  the  corridor 
Just  stirs  the  curtain,  and  no  more, 
And,  touching  the  aeolian  strings. 
Faints  with  the  burden  that  it  brings  I 
Come  back ! ye  friendships  long  de- 
parted ! 

That  like  o’erflovving  streamlets  started, 
And  now  are  dwindled,  one  by  one. 

To  stony  channels  in  the  sun  ! 

Come  back  ! ye  friends,  whose  lives  are 
ended. 

Come  back,  with  all  that  light  attended. 
Which  seemed  to  darken  and  decay 
When  ye  arose  and  went  away  ! 

They  come,  the  shapes  of  joy  and  woe. 
The  airy  crowds  of  long  ago. 


The  dreams  and  fancies  known  of  yore, 
That  have  been,  and  shall  be  no  more. 
They  change  the  cloisters  of  the  night 
Into  a garden  of  delight ; 

They  make  the  dark  and  dreary  hours 
Open  and  blossom  into  flowers  1 
I would  not  sleep  ! I love  to  be 
Again  in  their  fair  company  ; 

But  ere  my  lips  can  bid  them  stay. 
They  pass  and  vanish  quite  away  ! 

Alas  ! our  memories  may  retrace 
Each  circumstance  of  time  and  place. 
Season  and  scene  come  back  again,  _ 
And  outward  things  unchanged  remain  j 
The  rest  we  cannot  reinstate  ; 
Ourselves  we  cannot  re-create. 

Nor  set  our  souls  to  the  same  key 
Of  the  remembered  harmony  ! 

Rest  ! rest ! O,  give  me  rest  and  peace  1 
The  thought  of  life  that  ne’er  shall 
cease 

Has  something  in  it  like  despair, 

A weight  I am  too  weak  to  bear  1 
Sweeter  to  this  afflicted  breast 
The  thought  of  never-ending  rest ! 
Sweeter  the  undisturbed  and  deep 
Tranquillity  of  endless  sleep  ! 

(A  flash  of  lightning,  out  of  which 
Lucifer  appears,  in  the  garb  of  a 
travellmg  Physician-') 

Lucifer.  All  hail,  Prince  Henry  ! 


74 


THE  GOLD  EH  LEGEND. 


Prince  Henry  {starting).  Who  is  it 
speaks  ? 

Who  and  what  are  you? 

Lucifer.  One  who  seeks 
A moment’s  audience  with  the  Prince. 
Prmce  Henry.  When  came  you  in  ? 
Lucifer.  A moment  since. 

I found  your  study  door  unlocked, 

And  thought  you  answered  when  I 
knocked. 

Prince  Henry.  I did  not  hear  you. 
Lucifer.  You  heard  the  thunder ; 

It  was  loud  enough  to  waken  the  dead. 
And  it  is  not  a matter  of  special  wonder 
That,  when  God  is  walking  overhead, 
You  should  not  hear  my  feeble  tread. 
Prince  Henry.  What  may  your  wish 
or  purpose  be  ? 

Lucifer.  Nothing  or  everything,  as 
it  pleases 

Your  Highness.  You  behold  in  me 
Only  a travelling  Physician  ; 

One  of  the  few  who  have  a mission 
To  cure  incurable  diseases. 

Or  those  that  are  called  so. 

Prince  Henry.  Can  you  bring 
The  dead  to  life  ? 

Lucifer.  Yes  ; very  nearly. 

And,  what  is  a wiser  and  better  thing, 
Can  keep  the  living  from  ever  needing 
Such  an  unnatural,  strange  proceeding. 
By  showing  conclusively  and  clearly 
That  death  is  a stupid  blunder  merely. 
And  not  a necessity  of  our  lives. 

My  being  here  is  accidental ; 

The  storm,  that  against  your  casement 
drives. 

In  the  little  village  below  waylaid  me. 
And  there  I heard,  with  a secret  delight. 
Of  your  rnaladies  physical  and  mental, 
Which  neither  astonished  nor  dismayed 

And  I hastened  hither,  though  late  in 
the  night 

To  proffer  my  aid  ! 

Prince  Henry  {ironically).  F or  this 
you  came ! 

Ah,  how  can  I ever  hope  to  requite 
This  honor  from  one  so  erudite  ? 
Lucifer.  The  honor  is  mine,  or  will 
be  when 

I have  cured  your  disease. 

Prince  Henry.  But  not  till  then. 
Lucifer.  What  is  your  illness  ? 


Prince  Henry.  It  has  no  name. 
A smouldering,  dull,  perpetual  flame. 
As  in  a kiln,  burns  in  my  veins. 
Sending  up  vapors  to  the  head  ; 

My  heart  has  become  a dull  lagoon. 
Which  a kind  of  leprosy  drinks  and 
drains ; 

I am  accounted  as  one  who  is  dead. 
And,  indeed,  I think  that  I shall  be 
soon. 

Lucifer.  And  has  Gordonius  the  Di- 
vine, 

In  his  famous  Lily  of  Medicine,  — 

I see  the  book  lies  open  before  you,  — 
No  remedy  potent  enough  to  restore 
you  ? 

Prince  Henry.  N one  whatever ! 
Lucifer.  The  dead  are  dead. 

And  their  oracles  dumb,  when  ques- 
tioned 

Of  the  new  diseases  that  human  life 
Evolves  in  its  progress,  rank  and  rife. 
Consult  the  dead  upon  things  that  were, 
But  the  living  onl;^  on  things  that  are. 
Have  you  done  this,  by  the  appliance 
And  aid  of  doctors  ? 

Prince  Henry.  Ay,  whole  schools 
Of  doctors,  with  their  learned  rules ; 
But  the  case  is  quite  beyond  their  sci- 
ence. 

Even  the  doctors  of  Salem 

Send  me  back  word  they  can  discern 

No  cure  for  a malady  like  this. 

Save  one  which  in  its  nature  is 
Impossible,  and  cannot  be  ! 

Lucifer.  That  sounds  oracular  ! 
Prince  Henry.  Unendurable ! 

Lucifer.  What  is  their  remedy  ? 
Prince  Henry.  You  shall  see  ; 

Writ  in  this  scroll  is  the  mystery. 

L ucifer  {reading).  “ Not  to  be  cured, 
yet  not  incurable  ! 

The  only  remedy  that  remains 
Is  the  blood  that  flows  from  a maiden’s 
veins. 

Who  of  her  own  free  will  shall  die. 

And  give  her  life  as  the  price  of  yours  ! ” 
That  is  the  strangest  of  all  cures. 

And  one,  I think,  you  will  never  try  ; 
The  prescription  you  may  well  put  by. 
As  something  impossible  to  find 
Before  the  world  itself  shall  end  ! 

And  yet  who  knows  ? One  cannot  py 
That  into  some  maiden’s  brain  that  kind 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Of  madness  will  not  find  its  way. 
Meanwhile  permit  me  to  recommend, 
As  the  matter  admits  of  no  delay, 

My  wonderful  Catholicon, 

Of  very  subtile  and  magical  powers  ! 
Prince  Henry.  Purge  with  your  nos- 
trums and  drugs  infernal 
The  spouts  and  gargoyles  of  these  tow- 
ers. 

Not  me.  My  faith  is  utterly  gone 
In  every  power  but  the  Power  Supernal ! 
Pray  tell  me,  of  what  school  are  you  ? 
Lucifer.  Both  of  the  Old  and  of  the 
New  ! 

The  school  of  Hermes  Trismegistus, 
Who  uttered  his  oracles  sublime 
Before  the  Olympiads,  in  the  dew 
Of  the  early  dusk  and  dawn  of  Time, 
The  reign  of  dateless  old^  Hephaestus  ! 
As  northward,  from  its  Nubian  springs. 
The  Nile,  forever  new  and  old. 

Among  the  living  and  the  dead. 

Its  mighty,  mystic  stream  has  rolled ; 
So,  starting  “from  its  fountain-head 
Under  the  lotus-leaves  of  Isis, 

From  the  dead  demigods  of  eld. 
Through  long,  unbroken  lines  of  kings 
Its  course  the  sacred  art  has  held. 
Unchecked,  unchanged  by  man’s  devi- 
ces. 

This  art  the  Arabian  Geber  taught. 

And  in  alembics,  finely  wrought. 
Distilling  herbs  and  flowers,  discovered 
The  secret  that  so  long  had  hovered 
Upon  the  misty  verge  of  Truth,* 

The  Elixir  of  Perpetual  Youth, 

Called  Alcohol,  in  the  Arab  speech  ! 
Like  him,  this  wondrous  lore  I teach  ! 
Prince  Henry.  What ! an  adept  ? 
Lucifer.  Nor  less,  nor  more  ! 

Prince  Henry.  I am  a reader  of 
your  books, 

A lover  of  that  mystic  lore  ! 

With  such  a piercing  glance  it  looks 
Into  great  Nature’s  open  eye,  _ 

And  sees  within  it  trembling  lie 
The  portrait  of  the  Deity  ! 

And  yet,  alas  ! with  all  my  pains. 

The  secret  and  the  mystery 
Have  baffled  and  eluded  me, 

Unseen  the  grand  result  remains  ! 
Lucifer  {showing  a flask).  Behold 
It  here  ! this  little  flask 
Contains  the  wonderful  quintessence. 


The  perfect  flower  and  efflorescence. 

Of  all  the  knowledge  man  can  ask  ! 
Hold  it  up  thus  against  the  light  ! 
Prince  Henry.  How  limpid,  pure, 
and  crystalline. 

How  quick,  and  tremulous,  and  bright 
The  little  wavelets  dance  and  shine, 
As  were  it  the  Water  of  Life  in  sooth  ! 
Lucifer.  It  is  ! It  assuages  every 
pain. 

Cures  all  disease,  and  gives  again 
To  age  the  swift  delights  of  youth. 
Inhale  its  fragrance. 

Prince  Henry.  It  is  sweet. 

A thousand  different  odors  meet 
And  mingle  in  its  rare  perfume. 

Such  as  the  winds  of  summer  waft 
At  open  windows  through  a room  ! 
Lucifer.  Will  you  not  taste  it  ? 
Prince  Heriry.  Will  one  draught 
suffice  ? 

Lucifer.  If  not,  you  can  drink  more. 
Prince  Henry.  Into  this  crystal  gob- 
let pour 

So  much  as  safely  I may  drink. 
Ltccfer  {pouring).  Let  not  the  quan- 
tity alarm  you  ; 

Y ou  may  drink  all ; it  will  not  harm  you. 
Prince  Henry.  I am  as  one  who  on 
the  brink 

Of  a dark  river  stands  and  sees 
The  waters  flow,  the  landscape  dim 
Around  him  waver,  wheel,  and  swim. 
And,  ere  he  plunges,  stops  to  think 
Into  what  whirlpools  he  may  sink  ; 

One  moment  pauses,  and  no  more. 
Then  madly  plunges  from  the  shore  ! 
Headlong  into  the  mysteries 
Of  life  and  death  I boldly  leap. 

Nor  fear  the  fateful  current’s  sweep. 
Nor  what  in  ambush  lurks  below  ! 

For  death  is  better  than  disease  I 
{A  n Angel  with  an  ceolian  harp 
hovers  in  the  air.) 

Angel.  Woe  ! woe  ! eternal  woe  1 
Not  only  the  whispered  prayer 
Of  love. 

But  the  imprecations  of  hate. 
Reverberate 

For  ever  and  ever  through  the  air 
Above  ! 

This  fearful  curse 
Shakes  the  great  universe  ! 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


76 


Lucifer  {disappearing).  Drink  ! 
drink ! 

And  thy  soul  shall  sink 
Down  into  the  dark  abyss, 

Into  the  infinite  abyss, 

From  which  no  plummet  nor  rope 
Ever  drew  up  the  silver  sand  of  hope  ! 
Prince  Henry  {drinking).  It  is  like 
a draught  of  fire  ! 

Through  every  vein 
I feel  again 

The  fever  of  youth,  the  soft  desire  ; 

A rapture  that  is  almost  pain 
Throbs  in  my  heart  and  fills  my  brain  ! 

0 joy  ! O joy  ! I feel 
The  band  of  steel 

That  so  long  and  heavily  has  pressed 
Upon  my  breast 
Uplifted,  and  the  malediction 
Of  my  affliction 

Is  taken  from  me,  and  my  weary  breast 
At  length  finds  rest. 

The  Angel.  It  is  but  the  rest  of  the 
fire,  from  which  the  air  has  been 
taken  ! 

It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  sand,  when  the 
hour-glass  is  not  shaken  ! 

It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  tide  between  the 
ebb  and  the  flow  ! 

It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  wind  between 
the  flaws  that  blow  ! 

With  fiendish  laughter, 

Hereafter, 

This  false  physician 

Will  mock  thee  in  thy  perdition. 

Prince  Henry.  Speak  ! speak  ! 

Who  says  that  I am  ill  ? 

1 amTiot  ill  ! I am  not  weak  ! 

The  trance,  the  swoon,  the  dream,  is  o’er ! 
I feel  the  chill  of  death  no  more  ! 

At  length, 

I stand  renewed  in  all  my  strength  ! 

Beneath  me  I can  feel 

The  great  earth  stagger  and  reel. 

As  if  the  feet  of  a descending  God 
Upon  its  surface  trod. 

And  like  a pebble  it  rolled  beneath  his 
heel ! 

This,  O brave  physician  ! this 
Is  thy  great  Palingenesis  ! 

{Drinks  again.) 

The  Angel.  Touch  the  goblet  no 
more  I 


It  will  make  thy  heart  sore 
To  its  very  core  ! 

Its  perfume  is  the  breath 
Gf  the  Angel  of  Death, 

And  the  light  that  within  it  lies 
Is  the  flash  of  his  evil  eyes. 

Beware  ! O,  beware  ! 

F or  sickness,  sorrow,  and  care 
All  are  there  ! 

Prince  Henry  {sinking hcucK).  O thou 
voice  within  my  breast ! 

Why  entreat  me,  why  upbraid  me, 
When  the  steadfast  tongues  of  truth 
And  the  flattering  hopes  of  youth 
Have  all  deceived  me  and  betrayed 
me  ? 

Give  me,  give  me  rest,  O rest  ! 

Golden  visions  wave  and  hover. 
Golden  vapors,  ^yaters  streaming. 
Landscapes  moving,  changing,  gleam- 
ing ! 

I am  like  a happy  lover 
Who  illumines  life  with  dreaming  ! 
Brave  physician  ! Rare  physician  ! 
Well  hast  thou  fulfilled  thy  mission  ! 
{His  head falls  on  his  book.) 

The  Angel  {receding).  Alas!  alas! 
Like  a vapor  the  golden  vision 
Shall  fade  and  pass. 

And  thou  wilt  find  in  thy  heart  again 
Only  the  blight  of  painj 
And  bitter,  bitter,  bitter  contrition  I 
Cotcrt-yard  of  the  Castle.  Hubert 
standitig  by  the  gateway. 


Hubert.  How  sad  the  grand  old  cas- 
tle looks  ! 

O’erhead,  the  unmolested  rooks 
Upon  the  turret’s  windy  top 
Sit,  talking  of  the  farmer’s  crop  ; 

Here  ip  the  court-yard  springs  the  grass. 
So  few  are  now  the  feet  that  pass  ; 

The  stately  peacocks,  bolder  grown, 
Come  hopping  down  the  steps  of  stone. 
As  if  the  castle  were  their  own  ; 

And  I,  the  poor  old  seneschal. 

Haunt,  like  a ghost,  the  banquet-hall. 
Alas  ! the  merry  guests  no  more 
Crowd  through  the  hospitable  door  ; 
No  eyes  with  youth  and  passion  shine, 
No  cheeks  grow  redder  than  the  wine ; 
No  song,  no  laugh,  no  jovial  din 
Of  drinking  wassail  to  the  pin ; 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


77 


But  all  is  silent,  sad,  and  drear. 

And  now  the  only  sounds  ,I  hear 
Are  the  hoarse  rooks  upon  the  walls. 
And  horses  stamping  in  their  stalls  I 
horn  sou7tds.) 

What  ho  ! that  merry,  sudden  blast 
Reminds  me  of  the  days  long  past  ! 
And,  as  of  old  resounding,  grate 
The  heavy  hinges  of  the  gate. 

And,  clattering  loud,  with  iron  clank, 
Down  goes  the  sounding  bridge  of 
plank,. 

As  if  it  were  in  haste  to  greet 
The  pressure  of  a traveller’s  feet ! 
{Enter  Walter  the  Minnesinger^ 
Walter.  . How  now,  my  friend  ! This 
looks  quite  lonely  ! 

No  banner  flying  from  the  walls. 

No  pages  and  no  seneschals. 

No  warders,  and  one  porter  only  ! 

Is  it  you,  Hubert  ? 

Hubert.  Ah  ! Master  Walter  ! 
Walter.  Alas  ! how  forms  and  faces 
alter  ! 

I did  not  know  you.  You  look  older  ! 
Your  hair  has  grown  much  grayer  and 
thinner. 

And  you  stoop  a little  in  the  shoulder  ! 
Hubert.  Alack  ! I am  a poor  old  sin- 
ner. 

And,  like  these  towers,  begin  to  mould- 
er ; 

And  you  have  been  absent  many  a 
year  ! 

Walter.  How  is  the  Prince  ? 
Hubert.  He  is  not  here  ; 

He  has  been  ill : and  now  has  fled. 
Walter.  Speak  it  out  frankly;  say 
he ’s  dead ! 

Is  it  not  so? 

Hubert.  No  ; if  you  please, 

A strange,  mysterious  disease 
Fell  on  him  with  a sudden  blight. 
Whole  hours  together  he  would  stand 
Upon  the  terrace,  in  a dream. 

Resting  his  head  upon  his  hand. 

Best  pleased  when  he  was  most  alone, 
Like  Saint  John  Nepomuck  in  stone, 
Looking  down  into  a stream. 

In  the  Round  Tower,  night  after  night. 
He  sat,  and  bleared  his  eyes  with 
j books ; 


Until  one  morning  we  found  him  there 
Stretched  on  the  floor,  as  if  in  a swoon 
He  had  fallen  from  his  chair. 

We  hardly  recognized  his  sweet  looks  ! 
Walter.  Poor  Prince  ! 

Hubert.  I think  he  might  have 
mended ; 

And  he  did  mend  ; but  very  soon 
The  priests  came  flocking  in,  like  rooks. 
With  all  their  crosiers  and  their  crooks. 
And  so  at  last  the  matter  ended. 
Walter.  How  did  it  end? 

Hubert.  Why,  in  Saint  Rochus 
They  made  him  stand,  and  wait  his 
doom ; 

And,  as  if  he  were  condemned  to  the 
tomb. 

Began  to  mutter  their  hocus-pocus. 
First,  the  Mass  for  the  Dead  they 
chanted. 

Then  three  times  laid  upon  his  head 
A shovelful  of  churchyard  clay. 

Saying  to  him,  as  he  stood  undaunted, 
“ This  is  a sign  that  thou  art  dead. 

So  in  thy  heart  be  penitent ! ” 

And  forth  from  the  chapel  door  he  went 
Into  disgrace  and  banishment. 

Clothed  in  a cloak  of  hodden  gray. 
And  bearing  a wallet,  and  a bell. 
Whose  sound  should  be  a perpetual 
knell 

To  keep  all  travellers  away. 

Walter.  O,  horrible  fate  ! Outcaft, 
rejected. 

As  one  with  pestilence  infected  ! 
Hubert.  Then  was  the  family  tomb 
unsealed. 

And  broken  helmet,  sword,  and  shield. 
Buried  together  in  common  wreck, 

As  is  the  custom,  when  the  last 
Of  any  princely  house  has  passed, 

And  thrice,  as  with  a trumpet-blast, 

A herald  shouted  down  the  stair 
The  words  of  warning  and  despair,  — 
“ O Hoheneck  ! O Hoheneck  ! ” 
Walter.  Still  in  my  soul  that  cry 
goes  on, — 

Forever  gone  ! forever  gone  ! 

Ah,  what  a cruel  sense  of  loss. 

Like  a black  shadow,  would  fall  across 
The  hearts  of  all,  if  he  should  die  ! 

His  gracious  presence  upon  earth 
Was  as  a fire  upon  a hearth  ; 

As  pleasant  songs,  at  morning  sung. 


78  THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


The  words  that  dropped  from  his  sweet 
tongue 

Strengthened  our  hearts ; or,  heard  at 
night, 

Made  all  our  slumbers  soft  and  light. 
Where  is  he.^ 

Hubert.  In  the  Odenwald. 

Some  of  his  tenants,  unappalled 
By  fear  of  death,  or  priestly  word,  — 
A holy  family,  that  make 
Each  meal  a Supper  of  the  Lord, — 
Have  him  beneath  their  watch  and 
ward. 

For  love  of  him,  and  Jesus’  sake  ! 

Pray  you  come  in.  P'or  why  should  I 
With  out-door  hospitality 
My  prince’s  friend  thus  entertain? 

Walter.  I would  a moment  here  re- 
main. 

But  you,  good  Hubert,  go  before, 

Fill  me  a goblet  of  May-drink, 

As  aromatic  as  the  May 

From  which  it  steals  the  breath  away. 

And  which  he  loved  so  well  of  yore  ; 

It  is  of  him  that  I would  think. 

You  shall  attend  me,  when  I call, 

In  the  ancestral  banquet-hall. 

Unseen  companions,  guests  of  air. 

You  cannot  wait  on,  will  be  there  ; 
They  taste  not  food,  they  drink  not 
wine. 

But  their  soft  eyes  look  into  mine, 

And  their  lips  speak  to  me,  and  all 
The  vast  and  shadowy  banquet-hall 
Is  full  of  looks  and  words  divine  ! 

{Leaning  over  the  parapeti) 

The  day  is  done  ; and  slowly  from  the 
scene 

The  stooping  sun  upgathers  his  spent 
shafts. 

And  puts  them  back  into  his  golden 
quiver  ! 

Below  me  in  the  valley,  deep  and  green 
As  goblets  are,  from  which  in  thirsty 
draughts 

We  drink  its  wine,  the  swift  and  man- 
tling’river 

Flows  on  triumphant  through  these 
lovely  regions. 

Etched  with  the  shadows  of  its  sombre 
m argent. 

And  soft,  reflected  clouds  of  gold  and 
argent  I 


Yes,  there  it  flows,  forever,  broad  and 
still. 

As  when  the  vanguard  of  the  Roman 
legions 

First  saw  it  from  the  top  of  yonder  hill ! 
How  beautiful  it  is!  Fresh  fields  of 
wheat. 

Vineyard,  and  town,  and  tower  with 
fluttering  flag. 

The  consecrated  chapel  on  the  crag. 
And  the  white  hamlet  gathered  round 
its  base. 

Like  Mary  sitting  at  her  Saviour’s  feet. 
And  looking  up  at  his  beloved  face  ! 

O friend  1 O best  of  friends  ! Thy 
absence  more 

Than  the  impending  night  darkens  the  • 
landscape  o’er  I 

« II. 

A farm  in  the  Odenwald.  A garden ; 
mornmg;  Prince  Henry  seated, 
with  a book.  Elsie,  at  a distance, 
gathering  fiowers. 

Prmce  Henry  {reading').  One  mom- 
' ing,  all  alone, 

Out  of  his  convent  of  gray  stone. 

Into  the  forest  older,  darker,  grayer, 

His  lips  moving  as  if  in  prayer. 

His  head  sunken  upon  his  breast 
As  in  a dream  of  rest, 

Walked  the  Monk  Felix.  All  about 
The  broad,  sweet  sunshine  lay  without. 
Filling  the  summer  air  ; 

And  within  the  woodlands  as  he  trod. 
The  dusk  was  like  the  Truce  of  God 
With  worldly  woe  and  care  ; 

Under  him  lay  the  golden  moss; 

And  above  him  the  boughs  of  hoary 
trees 

Waved,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
And  whispered  their  Benedicites  ; 

And  from  the  ground 
Rose  an  odor  sweet  and  fragrant 
Of  the  wild-flowers  and  the  vagrant 
Vines  that  wandered. 

Seeking  the  sunshine,  round  and  round. 
These  he  heeded  not,  but  pondered 
On  the  volume  in  his  hand, 

A volume  of  Saint  Augustine, 

Wherein  he  read  of  the  unseen 
Splendors  of  God’s  great  town 
In  the  unknown  land. 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


79 


And,  with  his  eyes  cast  down 
In  humility,  he  said  : 

“ I believe,  O God, 

What  herein  I have  read. 

But,  alas  ! I do  not  understand  ! ” 

And  lo  ! he  heard 

The  sudden  singing  of  a bird, 

A snow-white  biid,  that  from  a cloud 
Dropped  down. 

And  among  the  branches  brown 
Sat  singing 

So  sweet,  and  clear,  and  loud, 

It  seemed  a thousand  harp-strings  ring- 
ing. 

And  the  Monk  Felix  closed  his  book 
And  long,  long. 

With  rapturous  look. 

He  listened  to  the  song, 

And  hardly  breathed  or  stirred, 

Until  he  saw,  as  in  a vision, 

The  land  Elysian, 

And  in  the  heavenly  city  heard 
Angelic  feet 

Fall  on  the  golden  flagging  of  the  street. 

And  he  would  fain 

Have  caught  the  wondrous  bird. 

But  strove  in  vain  ; 

F or  it  flew  away,  away. 

Far  over  hill  and  dell. 

And  instead  of  its  sweet  singing 
He  heard  the  convent  bell 
Suddenly  in  the  silence  ringing 
For  the  service  of  noonday. 

And  he  retraced 

His  pathway  homeward  sadly  and  In 
haste. 

In  the  convent  there  was  a change  ! 

He  looked  for  each  well-known  face. 
But  the  faces  were  new  and  strange  ; 
New  figures  sat  in  the  oaken  stalls. 
New  voices  chanted  in  the  choir ; 

Yet  the  place  was  the  same  place. 

The  same  dusky  walls 
Of  cold,  gray  stone. 

The  same  cloisters  and  belfry  and  spire, 
A stranger  and  alone 
Among  that  brotherhood 
The  Monk  Felix  stood. 

“ Forty  years,”  said  a Friar, 

“ Have  I been  Prior 
Of  this  convent  in  the  wood. 

But  for  that  space 
N ever  have  I beheld  thy  face  ! ” 


The  heart  of  the  Monk  Felix  fell ; 

And  he  answered,  with  submissive  tone, 
“This  morning,  after  the  hour  of  Prime, 

I left  my  cell. 

And  wandered  forth  alone, 

Listening  all  the  time 
To  the  melodious  singing 
Of  a beautiful  white  bird. 

Until  I heard 

The  bells  of  the  convent  ringing 
Noon  from  their  noisy  towers. 

It  was  as  if  I dreamed ; 

For  what  to  me  had  seemed 
Moments  only,  had  been  hours  ! ” 
“Years  ! ” said  a voice  close  by. 

It  was  an  aged  monk  who  spoke, 

F rom  a bench  of  oak 
Fastened  against  the  wall ; — 

He  was  the  oldest  monk  of  all. 

For  a whole  century 
Had  he  been  there. 

Serving  God  in  prayer. 

The  meekest  and  humblest  of  his  crea- 
tures. 

He  remembered  well  the  features 
Of  Felix,  and  he  said, 

Speaking  distinct  and  slow  ; 

“One  hundred  years  ago, 

When  I was  a novice  in  this  place, 
There  was  here  a monk,  full  of  God’s 
grace. 

Who  bore  the  name 
Of  Felix,  and  this  man  must  be  the 
same.” 

And  straightway 

They  brought  forth  to  the  light  of  day, 
A volume  old  and  brown, 

A huge  tome,  bound 
In  brass  and  wild-boars  hide. 

Wherein  were  written  down 
The  names  of  all  who  had  died 
In  the  convent,  since  it  was  edified. 
And  there  they  found. 

Just  as  the  old  monk  said, 

That  on  a certain  day  and  date, 

One  hundred  years  before. 

Had  gone  forth  from  the  convent  gate, 
The  Monk  Felix,  and  never  more 
Had  entered  that  sacred  door. 

He  had  been  counted  among  the  dead  ! 
And  they  knew,  at  last, 

That,  such  had  been  the  power 
Of  that  celestial  and  immortal  song. 


8o 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


A hundred  years  had  passed, 

And  had  not  seemed  so  long 
As  a single  hour  ! 

(Elsie  comes  in  with  flowers.') 
Elsie.  Here  are  flowers  for  you, 

But  they  are  not  all  for  you. 

Some  of  them  are  for  the  Virgin 
And  for  Saint  Cecilia. 

Prince  Henry.  As  thou  standest 
there. 

Thou  seemest  to  rne  like  the  angel 
That  brought  the  immortal  roses 
To  Saint  Cecilia’s  bridal  chamber. 
Elsie.  But  these  will  fade. 

Prince  Henry.  Themselves  will  fade. 
But  not  their  memory. 

And  memory  has  the  power 
To  re-create  them  from  the  dust. 

They  remind  me,  too. 

Of  martyred  Dorothea, 

Who  from  celestial  gardens  sent 
Flowers  as  her  witnesses 
To  him  who  scoffed  and  doubted. 

Elsie.  Do  you  know  the  story 
Of  Christ  and  the  Sultan’s  daughter? 
That  is  the  prettiest  legend  of  them  all. 

Prince  Henry.  Then  tell  it  to  me. 
But  first  come  hither. 

Lay  the  flowers  down  beside  me. 

And  put  both  thy  hands  in  mine. 

Now  tell  me  the  story. 

Elsie.  Early  in  the  morning 
The  Sultan’s  daughter 
Walked  in  her  father’s  garden. 
Gathering  the  bright  flowers. 

All  full  of  dew. 

Prince  Henry.  Just  as  thou  hast 
been  doing 

This  morning,  dearest  Elsie. 

Elsie.  And  as  she  gathered  them. 
She  wondered  more  and  more 
Who  was  the  Master  of  the  Flowers, 
And  made  them  grow 
Out  of  the  cold,  dark  earth. 

“ In  my  heart,”  she  said, 

“ I love  him  ; and  for  him 
Would  leave  my  father’s  palace. 

To  labor  in  his  garden.” 

Prince  Henry.  Dear,  innocent  child  ! 
How  sweetly  thou  recallest 
The  long-forgotten  legend. 

That  in  my  early  childhood 
My  mother  told  me  1 


Upon  my  brain 
It  reappears  once  more. 

As  a birth-mark  on  the  forehead 
When  a hand  suddenly 
Is  laid  upon  it,  and  removed  ! 

Elsie.  And  at  midnight. 

As  she  lay  upon  her  bed. 

She  heard  a voice 

Call  to  her  from  the  garden. 

And,  looking  forth  from  her  window, 
She  saw  a beautiful  youth 
Standing  among  the  flowers. 

It  was  the  Lord  Jesus  ; 

And  she  went  down  to  him. 

And  opened  the  door  for  him  ; 

And  he  said  to  her,  “ O maiden  ! 

Thou  hast  thought  of  me  with  love. 
And  for  thy  sake 
Out  of  my  Father’s  kingdom 
Have  I come  hither  : 

I am  the  Master  of  the  Flowers. 

My  garden  is  in  Paradise, 

And  if  thou  wilt  go  with  me. 

Thy  bridal  garland 

Shall  be  of  bright  red  flowers.” 

And  then  he  took  from  his  finger 
A golden  ring. 

And  asked  the  Sultan’s  daughter 
If  she  would  be  his  bride. 

And  when  she  answered  him  with  love, 
His  wounds  began  to  bleed. 

And  she  said  to  him, 

“ O Love  ! how  red  thy  heart  is. 

And  thy  hands  are  full  of  roses.” 

“For  thy  sake,”  answered  he, 

“For  thy  sake  is  my  heart  so  red. 

For  thee  I bring  these  roses  ; 

I gathered  them  at  the  cross 
Whereon  I died  for  thee  ! 

Come,  for  my  Father  calls. 

Thou  art  my  elected  bride  ! ” 

And  the  Sultan’s  daughter 
Followed  him  to  his  Father’s  garden. 
Prince  Henry.  Wouldst  thou  have 
done  so,  Elsie  ? 

Elsie.  Yes,  very  gladly. 

Prince  Henry.  Then  the  Celestial 
Bridegroom 

Will  come  for  thee  also. 

Upon  thy  forehead  he  will  place. 

Not  his  crown  of  thorns, 

But  a crown  of  roses. 

In  thy  bridal  chamber, 

Like  Saint  Cecilia, 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Thou  shalt  hear  sweet  music, 

And  breathe  the  fragrance 
Of  flowers  immortal ! 

Go  now  and  place  these  flowers 
Before  her  picture. 

A room  in  the  farm-house.  Twilight. 
Ursula  spinning.  Gottlieb  asleep 
in  his  chair. 

Ursula.  Darker  and  darker  ! Hard- 
ly a glimmer 

Of  light  comes  in  at  the  window-pane  ; 
Or  is  it  my  eyes  are  growing  dim- 
mer  ? 

I cannot  disentangle  this  skein, 

Nor  wind  it  rightly  upon  the  reel. 

Elsie  ! 

Gottlieb  {starting).  The  stopping  of 
thy  wheel 

Has  wakened  me  out  of  a pleasant 
dream. 

I thought  I was  sitting  beside  a stream, 
And  heard  the  grinding  of  a mill, 
When  suddenly  the  wheels  stood  still. 
And  a voice  cried  “ Elsie  ” in  my  ear  ! 
It  startled  me,  it  seemed  so  near. 
Ursula.  I was  calling  her : I want 
a light. 

I cannot  see  to  spin  my  flax. 

Bring  the  lamp,  Elsie.  Dost  thou  hear? 
Elsie  {within).  In  a moment ! 
Gottlieb.  Where  are  Bertha  and 
Max?  • 

Ursula.  They  are  sitting  with  Elsie 
at  the  door. 

She  is  telling  them  stories  of  the  wood. 
And  the  Wolf,  and  little  Red  Riding- 
hood. 

Gottlieb.  And  where  is  the  Prince  ? 
Ursula.  In  his  room  overhead  ; 
I heard  him  walking  across  the  floor. 
As  he  always  does,  with  a heavy  tread. 

{^i.siK  comes  in  with  a lamp.  Max 
and  Bertha  follow  her;  arid  they 
all  sing  the  Evening  Song  on  the 
light  mg  of  the  lamps.) 

EVENING  SONG. 

O gladsome  light 
Of  the  Father  Immortal, 

And  of  the  celestial 
Sacred  and  blessed 
Jesus,  our  Saviour  ! 

6 


Now  to  the  sunset 
Again  hast  thou  brought  us  ; 
And,  seeing  the  evening 
Twilight,  we  bless  thee. 

Praise  thee,  adore  thee  ! 
Father  omnipotent  ! 

Son,  the  Life-giver  ! 

Spirit,  the  Comforter  ! 

Worthy  at  all  times 
Of  worship  and  wonder  ! 

PHnce  Henry  {at  the  door).  Amen  ! 

Urstda.  Who  was  it  said  Amen  ? 

Elsie.  It  was  the  Prince  : he  stood 
at  the  door. 

And  listened  a moment,  as  we  chanted 

The  evening  song.  He  is  gone  again. 

I have  often  seen  him  there  before. 

Ursula.  Poor  Prince  ! 

Gottlieb.  I thought  the  house  was 
haunted  ! 

Poor  Prince,  alas  ! and  yet  as  mild 

And  patient  as  the  gentlest  child  ! 

Max.  I love  him  because  he  is  so 
good, 

And  makes  me  such  fine  bows  and  ar- 
rows. 

To  shoot  at  the  robins  and  the  spar- 
rows. 

And  the  red  squirrels  in  the  wood  ! 

Bertha.  I love  him,  too  ! 

Gottlieb.  Ah,  yes  ! we  all 

Love  him,  from  the  bottom  of  our 
hearts  ; 

He  gave  us  the  farm,  the  house,  and  the 
grange. 

He  gave  us  the  horses  and  the  carts. 

And  the  great  oxen  in  the  stall. 

The  vineyard,  and  the  forest  range  ! 

We  have  nothing  to  give  him  but  our 
love  ! 

Bertha.  Did  he  give  us  the  beautiful 
stork  above 

On  the  chimney-top,  with  its  large, 
round  nest  ? 

Gottlieb.  No,  not  the  stork  ; by  God 
in  heaven, 

As  a blessing,  the  dear  white  stork  was 
given. 

But  the  Prince  has  given  lis  all  the  rest. 

God  bless  him,  and  make  him  well  again. 

Elsie.  Would  I could  do  something 
for  his  sake. 

Something  to  cure  his  sorrow  and  pain  ! 


82 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Gottlieb.  That  no  one  can  ; neither 
thou  nor  I, 

Nor  any  one  else. 

Elsie.  And  must  he  die  ? 

Ursula.  Yes  ; if  the  dear  God  does 
not  take 

Pity  upon  him,  in  his  distress, 

And  work  a miracle  ! 

Gottlieb.  Or  unless 

Some  maiden,  of  her  own  accord. 

Offers  her  life  for  that  of  her  lord,  ' 
And  is  willing  to  die  in  his  stead. 

Elsie.  I will  ! 

Ursula.  Prithee,  thou  foolish  child, 
be  still  ! 

Thou  shouldst  not  say  what  thou  dost 
not  mean  ! 

Elsie.  I mean  it  truly  ! 

Max.  O father  ! this  morning, 

Down  by  the  mill,  in  the  ravine, 

Hans  killed  a wolf,  the  very  same 
That  in  the  night  to  the  sheepfold  came. 
And  ate  up  my  lamb,  that  was  left  out- 
side. 

Gottlieb.  I am  glad  he  is  dead.  It 
will  be  a warning 

To  the  wolves  in  the  forest,  far  and  wide. 
Max.  And  I am  going  to  have  his 
hide  ! 

Bertha.  I wonder  if  this  is  the  wolf 
that  ate 

Little  Red  Ridinghood  ! 

Ursula.  O no  ! 

That  wolf  was  killed  a long  while  ago. 
Come,  children,  it  is  growing  late. 

Max.  Ah,  how  I wish  I were  a man. 
As  stout  as  Hans  is,  and  as  strong  ! 

I would  do  nothing  else,  the  whole  day 
long, 

But  just  kill  wolves. 

Gottlieb.  Then  go  to  bed. 

And  grow  as  fast  as  a little  boy  can. 
Bertha  is  half  asleep  already. 

See  how  she  nods  her  heavy  head. 

And  her  sleepy  feet  are  so  unsteady 
She  will  hardly  be  able  to  creep  up  stairs. 
Ursula.  Good  night,  my  children. 
Here ’s  the  light. 

And  do  not  forget  to  say  your  prayers 
Before  you  sleep. 

Gottlieb.  Good  night  ! 

Max  and  Bertha.  Good  night  ! 

{They  go  out  with  Elsie.) 


Ursula  {spinning').  She  is  a strange 
and  wayward  child. 

That  Elsie  of  ours.  She  looks  so  old, 
And  thoughts  and  fancies  weird  and  wild 
Seem  of  late  to  have  taken  hold 
Of  her  heart,  that  was  once  so  docile 
and  mild ! 

Gottlieb.  She  is  like  all  girls; 

U rsula.  Ah  no,  forsooth  ! 

Unlike  all  I have  ever  seen. 

For  she  has  visions  and  strange  dreamt. 
And  in  all  her  words  and  ways,  she 
seems 

Much  older  than  she  is  in  truth. 

Who  would  think  her  but  fifteen  ? 

And  there  has  been  of  late  such  a 
change ! 

My  heart  is  heavy  with  fear  and  doubt 
That  she  may  not  live  till  the  year  is 
out. 

She  is  so  strange,  — so  strange,  — so 
strange  ! 

Gottlieb.  I am  not  troubled  with  any 
such  fear ; 

She  will  live  and  thrive  for  many  a year. 

Elsie’s  chamber.  Night.  Elsie 
praying. 

Elsie.  My  Redeemer  and  my  Lord, 
I beseech  thee,  I entreat  thee. 

Guide  me  in  each  act  and  word. 

That  hereafter  I may  meet  thee. 
Watching,  waiting,  hoping,  yearning. 
With  my  lamp  well  trimmed  and  burn- 
ing ! 

Interceding 

With  these  bleeding 

Wounds  upon  thy  hands  and  side. 

For  all  who  have  lived  and  erred 
Thou  hast  suffered,  thou  hast  died. 
Scourged,  and  mocked,  and  crucified. 
And  in  the  grave  hast  thou  been  buried ! 

If  my  feeble  prayer  can  reach  thee, 

O my  Saviour,  I beseech  thee. 

Even  as  thou  hast  died  for  me. 

More  sincerely 

Let  me  follow  where  thou  leadest. 

Let  me,  bleeding -as  thou  bleedest. 

Die,  if  dying  I may  give 
Life  to  one  who  asks  to  live, 

And  more  nearly, 

Dying  thus,  resemble  thee  ! 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


83 


The  chamber  of  Gottlieb  and  Ur- 
sula. Midnight.  Elsie  standing 
by  their  bedside,  'weeping. 

Gottlieb.  The  wind  is  roaring  ; the 
rushing  rain 

Is  loud  upon  roof  and  window-pane, 

As  if  the  Wild  Huntsman  of  Rodenstein, 
Boding  evil  to  me  and  mine, 

Were  abroad  to-night  with  his  ghostly 
train  ! 

In  the  brief  lulls  of  the  tempest  wild. 
The  dogs  howl  in  the  yard  ; and  hark  ! 
Some  one  is  sobbing  in  the  dark. 

Here  in  the  chamber  ! 

Elsie.  It  is  I. 

Ursula.  Elsie  ! what  ails  thee,  my 
poor  child  ? 

■Elsie.  I am  disturbed  and  much  dis- 
tressed, 

In  thinking  our  dear  Prince  must  die  ; 

I cannot  close  mine  eyes,  nor  rest. 
Gottlieb.  What  wouldsi  thou?  In 
the  Power  Divine 
His  healing  lies,  not  in  our  own  ; 

It  is  in  the  hand  of  God  alone. 

Elsie.  Nay,  he  has  put  it  into  mine. 
And  into  my  heart  ! 

Gottlieb.  Thy  words  are  wild  ! 

Ursula.  What  dost  thou  mean?  my 
child  ! my  child  ! 

Elsie.  That  for  our  dear  Prince 
Henry’s  sake 

I will  myself  the  offering  make. 

And  give  my  life  to  purchase  his. 
Ursula.  Am  I still  dreaming,  or 
awake  ? 

Thou  speakest  carelessly  of  death,  _ 

And  yet  thou  knowest  not  what  it  is. 
Elsie.  ’T  is  the  cessation  of  our 
breath. 

Silent  and  motionless  we  lie  ; 

And  no  one  knoweth  more  than  this. 

I saw  our  little  Gertrude  die  ; 

She  left  off  breathing,  and  no  more 
I smoothed  the  pillow  beneath  her  head. 
She  was  more  beautiful  than  before. 
Like  violets  faded  were  her  eyes  ; 

By  this  we  knew  that  she  was  dead. 
Through  the  open  window  looked  the 
skies 

Into  the  chamber  where  she  lay. 

And  the  wind  was  like  the  sound  of 
wings, 


As  if  angels  came  to  bear  her  away. 

Ah  ! when  I saw  and  felt  these  things, 

I found  it  difficult  to  stay  ; 

I longed  to  die,  as  she  had  died. 

And  go  forth  with  her,  side  by  side. 
The  Saints  are  dead,  the  Martyrs  dead. 
And  Mary,  and  our  Lord  ; and  I 
Would  follow  in  humility 
I'he  way  by  them  illumined  ! 

Ursula.  My  child  ! my  child  ! thou 
must  not  die  ! 

Elsie.  Why  should  I live?  Do  I 
not  know 

The  life  of  woman  is  full  of  woe  ? 
Toiling  on  and  on  and  on, 

With  breaking  heart,  and  tearful  eyes. 
And  silent  lips,  and  in  the  soul 
The  secret  longings  that  arise. 

Which  this  world  never  satisfies  ! 

Some  more,  some  less,  but  of  the  whole 
Not  one  quite  happy,  no,  not  one  ! 
Ursula.  It  is  the  malediction  of  Eve  1 
Elsie.  In  place  of  it,  let  me  receive 
The  benediction  of  Mary,  then. 

Gottlieb.  Ah,  woe  is  me  ! Ah,  woe 
is  me  ! 

Most  wretched  am  I among  men  ! 

U rsula.  Alas  ! that  I should  live  to 
see 

Thy  death,  beloved,  and  to  stand 
Above  thy  grave  ! Ah,  woe  the  day  ! 
Elsie.  Thou  wilt  not  see  it.  I shall 
lie 

Beneath  the  flowers  of  another  land. 

For  at  Salerno,  far  away 

Over  the  mountains,  over  the  sea. 

It  is  appointed  me  to  die  ! 

And  it  will  seem  no  more  to  thee 
Than  if  at  the  village  on  market-day 
I should  a little  longer  stay 
Than  I am  wont. 

Ursula.  Even  as  thou  sayest ! 

And  how  my  heart  beats,  when  thou 
stayest ! 

I cannot  rest  until  my  sight 
Is  satisfied  with  seeing  thee. 

What,  then,  if  thou  wert  dead  ? 

Gottlieb.  Ah  me  ! 

Of  our  old  eyes  thou  art  the  light ! 

The  joy  of  our  old  hearts  art  thou  ! 

And  wilt  thou  die  ? 

Ursula.  Not  now  ! not  now  ! 

Elsie.  Christ  died  for  me,  and  shall 
not  I 


84 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Be  willing  for  my  Prince  to  die  ? 

You  both  are  silent ; you  cannot  speak. 
This  said  I at  our  Saviour’s  feast 
After  confession,  to  the  priest, 

And  even  he  made  no  reply. 

Does  he  not  warn  us  all  to  seek 
The  happier,  better  land  on  high. 
Where  flowers  immortal  never  wither ; 
And  could  he  forbid  me  to  go  thither  ? 
Gottlieb.  In  God’s  own  time,  my 
heart’s  delight  ! 

When  he  shall  call  thee,  not  before  ! 
Elsie.  I heard  him  call.  When 
Christ  ascended 

Triumphantly,  from  star  to  star. 

He  left  the  gates  of  heaven  ajar. 

I had  a vision  in  the  night. 

And  saw  him  standing  at  the  door 
Of  his  F ather’s  mansion,  vast  and  splen- 
did. 

And  beckoning  to  me  from  afar. 

I cannot  stay  ! 

Gottlieb.  She  speaks  almost 
As  if  it  were  the  Holy  Ghost 
Spake  through  her  lips,  and  in  her 
stead  ! 

What  if  this  were  of  God  ? 

Ursula.  Ah,  then 

Gainsay  it  dare  we  not. 

Gottlieb.  Amen  ! 

Elsie  ! the  words  that  thou  hast  said 
Are  strange  and  new  for  us  to  hear. 
And  fill  our  hearts  with  doubt  and  fear. 
Whether  it  be  a dark  temptation 
Of  the  Evil  One,  or  God’s  inspiration. 
We  in  our  blindness  cannot  say. 

We  must  think  upon  it,  and  pray  ; 

For  evil  and  good  it  both  resembles. 

If  it  be  of  God,  his  will  be  done  ! 

May  he  guard  us  from  the  Evil  One  ! 
How  hot  thy  hand  is  ! how  it  trembles ! 
Go  to  thy  bed,  and  try  to  sleep. 

Ursula.  Kiss  me.  Good  night ; and 
do  not  w'eep  1 

(Elsie  goes  out.) 

Ah,  what  an  awful  thing  is  this ! 

I almost  shuddered  at  her  kiss. 

As  if  a ghost  had  touched  my  cheek, 

I am  so  childish  and  so  weak  ! 

As  soon  as  I see  the  earliest  gray 
Of  morning  glimmer  in  the  east, 

I will  go  over  to  the  priest. 

And  hear  what  the  good  man  has  to  s^  ’ 


A village  church.  A tvoman  kfieeling 
at  the  confessional. 

The  Parish  Priest  {from  within). 
Go,  sin  no  more  ! Thy  penance 

A new  and  better  life  begin  ! 

God  maketh  thee  forever  free 
From  the  dominion  of  thy  sin  ! 

Go,  sin  no  more  ! He  will  restore 
The  peace  that  filled  thy  heart  before, 
And  pardon  thine  iniquity  ! 

{The  woman  goes  out.  The  Priest 
comes  forth,  and  walks  slowly  up 
and  down  the  churchi) 

0 blessed  Lord  ! how  much  I need 
Thy  light  to  guide  me  on  my  way  ! 

So  many  hands,  that,  without  heed. 
Still  touch  thy  wounds,  and  make  them 

bleed  ! 

So  many  feet,  that,  day  by  day. 

Still  wander  from  thy  fold  astray  ! 
Unless  thou  fill  me  with  thy  light, 

1 cannot  lead  thy  flock  aright ; 

Nor,  w ithout  thy  support,  can  bear 
The  burden  of  so  great  a care. 

But  am  myself  a castaway  ! 

(A  pause.) 

The  day  is  drawing  to  its  close  ; 

And  what  good  deeds,  since  first  it  rose. 
Have  I presented.  Lord,  to  thee. 

As  offerings  of  my  ministry? 

What  wTong  repressed,  what  right  main- 
tained. 

What  struggle  passed,  w'hat  victory 
gained. 

What  good  attempted  and  attained? 
Feeble,  at  best,  is  my  endeavor  ! 

I see,  but  cannot  reach,  the  height 
That  lies  forever  in  the  light. 

And  yet  forever  and  forever. 

When  seeming  just  within  my  grasp, 

I feel  my  feeble  hands  unclasp. 

And  sink  discouraged  into  night ! 

For  thine  o\\m  purpose,  thou  hast  sent 
The  strife  and  the  discouragement ! 

(A  pause.) 

Why  stayestthou.  Prince  ofHoheneck? 
Why  keep  me  pacing  to  and  fro 
Amid  these  aisles  of  sacred  gloom. 
Counting  my  footsteps  as  I go. 

And  marking  with  each  step  a tomb  ? 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Why  should  the  world  for  thee  make 
room, 

And  wait  thy  leisure  and  thy  beck? 
Thou  comest  in  the  hope  to  hear 
Some  word  of  comfort  and  of  cheer. 
What  can  I say?  I cannot  give 
The  counsel  to  do  this  and  live  ; 

But  rather,  firmly  to  deny 
The  tempter,  though  his  power  be 
strong. 

And,  inaccessible  to  wrong, 

Still  like  a martyr  live  and  die  ! 

(A  pause.) 

The  evening  air  grows  dusk  and  brown  ; 
I must  go  forth  into  the  town. 

To  visit  beds  of  pain  and  death. 

Of  restless  limbs,  and  quivering  breath, 
And  sorrowing  hearts,  and  patient  eyes 
That  see,  through  tears,  the  sun  go 
down. 

But  nevermore  shall  see  it  rise. 

The  poor  in  body  and  estate, 

The  sick  and  the  disconsolate. 

Must  not  on  man’s  convenience  wait. 
(Goes  out) 

(Enter  Lucifer,  as  a Priest.) 
Lucifer  (with  a genuflexion,  mock- 
ing). This  is  the  Black  Pater- 
noster. 

God  was  my  foster. 

He  fostered  me 

Under  the  book  of  the  Palm-tree  ! 

St.  Michael  was  my  dame. 

He  was  born  at  Bethlehem, 

He  was  made  of  flesh  and  blood. 

God  send  me  my  right  food. 

My  right  food,  and  shelter  too. 

That  I may  to  yon  kirk  go, 

To  read  upon  yon  sweet  book 
Which  the  mighty  God  of  heaven 
shook. 

Open,  open,  hell’s  gates  ! 

Shut,  shut,  heaven’s  gates  ! 

All  the  devils  in  the  air 
The  stronger  be,  that  hear  the  Black 
Prayer ! 

(Looking  round  the  church.) 
What  a darksome  and  dismal  place  ! 

I wonder  that  any  man  has  the  face 
To  call  such  a hole  the  House  of  the 
Lord, 


85 

And  the  Gate  of  Heaven,  — yet  such  is 
the  word. 

Ceiling,  and  walls,  and  windows  old. 
Covered  with  cobwebs,  blackened  with 
mould ; " 

Dust  on  the  pulpit,  dust  on  the  stairs, 
Dust  on  the  benches,  and  stalls,  and 
chairs  ! 

The  pulpit,  from  which  such  ponder- 
ous sermons 

Have  fallen  down  on  the  brains  of  the 
Germans, 

With  about  as  much  real  edification 
As  if  a great  Bible,  bound  in  lead, 

Had  fallen,  and  struck  them  on  the 
head ; 

And  I ought  to  remember  that  sensa- 
tion ! 

Here  stands  the  holy-water  stoup  ! 
Holy-water  it  may  be  to  many. 

But  to  me,  the  veriest  Liquor  Ge- 
hennas ! 

It  smells  like  a filthy  fast-day  soup  ! 
Near  it  stands  the  box  for  the  poor  ; 
With  its  iron  padlock,  safe  and  sure. 

I and  the  priest  of  the  parish  know 
Whither  all  these  charities  go ; 
Therefore,  to  keep  up  the  institution, 

I will  add  my  little  contribution  ! 

(He  puts  in  money.) 
Underneath  this  mouldering  tomb, 
With  statue  of  stone,  and  scutcheon  of 
brass. 

Slumbers  a great  lord  of  the  village. 

All  his  life  was  riot  and  pillage. 

But  at  length,  to  escape  the  threatened 
doom 

Of  the  everlasting,  penal  fire. 

He  died  in  the  dress  of  a mendicant 
friar, 

And  bartered  his  wealth  for  a daily 
mass. 

But  all  that  afterwards  came  to  pass. 
And  whether  he  finds  it  dull  or  pleas- 
ant. 

Is  kept  a secret  for  the  present. 

At  his  own  particular  desire. 

And  here,  in  a corner  of  the  wall, 
Shadowy,  silent,  apart  from  all. 

With  its  awful  portal  open  wide, 

And  its  latticed  windows  on  either  side. 
And  its  step  well  worn  by  the  bended 
knees 


L 


86 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Of  one  or  two  pious  centuries, 

Stands  the  village  confessional ! 

Within  it,  as  an  honored  guest, 

I will  sit  me  down  awhile  and  rest ! 

i^Seats  himself  in  the  confessional.') 
Here  sits  the  priest ; and  faint  and  low. 
Like  the  sighing  of  an  evening  breeze. 
Comes  through  these  painted  lattices 
The  ceaseless  sound  of  human  woe  ; 
Here,  while  her  bosom  aches  and 
throbs 

With  deep  and  agonizing  sobs. 

That  half  are  passion,  half  contrition. 
The  luckless  daughter  of  perdition 
Slowly  confesses  her  secret  shame  ! 
The  time,  the  place,  the  lover’s  name  ! 
Here  the  grim  murderer,  with  a groan. 
From  his  bruised  conscience  rolls  the 
stone. 

Thinking  that  thus  he  can  atone 
For  ravages  of  sword  and  flame  ! 
Indeed,  I marvel,  and  marvel  greatly. 
How  a priest  can  sit  here  so  sedately, 
Reading,  the  whole  year  out  and  in, 
Naught  but  the  catalogue  of  sin. 

And  still  keep  any  faith  whatever 
In  human  virtue  ! Never  ! never  ! 

I cannot  repeat  a thousandth  part, 

Of  the  horrors  and  crimes  and  sins  and 
woes 

That  arise,  when  with  palpitating 
throes 

The  graveyard  in  the  human  heart 
Gives  up  its  dead,  at  the  voice  of  the 
priest. 

As  if  he  were  an  archangel,  at  least. 

It  makes  a peculiar  atmosphere. 

This  odor  of  earthly  passions  and 
crimes. 

Such  as  I like  to  breathe,  at  times. 

And  such  as  often  brings  me  here 
In  the  hottest  and  most  pestilential 
season. 

To-day,  I come  for  another  reason  ; 

To  foster  and  ripen  an  evil  thought 
In  a heart  that  is  almost  to  madness 
wrought. 

And  to  make  a murderer  out  of  a prince, 
A sleight  of  hand  I learned  long  since  ! 
He  comes.  In  the  twilight  he  will  not  see 
The  difference  between  his  priest  and 
me  ! 

In  the  same  net  was  the  mother  caught ! 


Prhice  Henry  {entering  and  kiieel- 
ing  at  the  confessional).  Re- 
morseful, penitent,  and  lowly, 

I come  to  crave,  O Father  holy. 

Thy  benediction  on  my  head. 

Lucifer.  The  benediction  shall  be 
said 

After  confession,  not  before  ! 

’T  is  a God-speed  to  the  parting  guest. 
Who  stands  already  at  the  door. 
Sandalled  with  holiness,  and  dressed 
In  garments  pure  from  earthly  stain. 
Meanwhile,  hast  thou  searched  well 
thy  breast  ? 

Does  the  same  madness  fill  thy  brain  ? 
Or  have  thy  passion  and  unrest 
Vanished  forever  from  thy  mind  ? 
Prince  Henry.  By  the  same  mad- 
ness still  made  blind. 

By  the  same  passion  still  possessed, 

I come  again  to  the  house  of  prayer, 

A man  afliicted  and  distressed  ! 

As  in  a cloudy  atmosphere. 

Through  unseen  sluices  of  the  air, 

A sudden  and  impetuous  wind 
Strikes  the  great  forest  white  with  fear. 
And  every  branch,  and  bough,  and 
spray 

Points  all  its  quivering  leaves  one  way. 
And  meadows  of  grass,  and  fields  of 
grain. 

And  the  clouds  above,  and  the  slanting 
rain. 

And  smoke  from  chimneys  of  the  town, 
Yield  themselves  to  it,  and  bow  down. 
So  does  this  dreadful  purpose  press 
Onward,  with  irresistible  stress, 

And  all  my  thoughts  and  faculties. 
Struck  level  by  the  strength  of  this. 
From  their  true  inclination  turn. 

And  all  stream  forward  to  Salem  ! 
Lucifer.  Alas  ! we  are  but  eddies  of 
dust. 

Uplifted  by  the  blast,  and  whirled 
Along  the  highway  of  the  world 
A moment  only,  then  to  fall 
Back  to  a common  level  all. 

At  the  subsiding  of  the  gust ! 

Prince  Henry.  O holy  F ather  ! par. 
don  in  me 

The  oscillation  of  a mind 
Unsteadfast,  and  that  cannot  find 
Its  centre  of  rest  and  harmony  ! 
Forevermore  before  mine  eyes 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


This  ghastly  phantom  flits  and  flies, 
And  as  a madman  through  a crowd, 
With  frantic  gestures  and  wild  cries, 

It  hurries  onward,  and  aloud 
Repeats  its  awful  prophecies  ! 
Weakness  is  wretchedness  ! To  be 
strong 

Is  to  be  happy  ! I am  weak, 

And  cannot  find  the  good  I seek. 
Because  I feel  and  fear  the  wrong  ! 
Lucifer.  Be  not  alarmed ! The 
Church  is  kind, 

And  in  her  mercy  and  her  meekness 
She  meets  half-way  her  children’s  weak- 
ness. 

Writes  their  transgressions  in  the  dust ! 
Though  in  the  Decalogue  we  find 
The  mandate  written,  “ Thou  shalt  not 
kill  ! ” 

Yet  there  are  cases  when  we  must. 

In  war,  for  instance,  or  from  scathe 
To  guard  and  keep  the  one  true  Faith  ! 
We  must  look  at  the  Decalogue  in  the 
light 

Of  an  ancient  statute,  that  was  meant 
For  a mild  and  general  application. 

To  be  understood  with  the  reservation. 
That,  in  certain  instances,  the  Right 
Must  yield  to  the  Expedient ! 

Thou  art  a Prince.  If  thou  shouldst  die. 
What  hearts  and  hopes  would  prostrate 
lie  ! 

What  noble  deeds,  what  fair  renown. 
Into  the  grave  with  thee  go  down  1 
What  acts  of  valor  and  courtesy 
Remain  undone,  and  die  with  thee  ! 

I hou  art  the  last  of  all  thy  race  ! 

With  thee  a noble  name  expires. 

And  vanishes  from  the  earth’s  face 
The  glorious  memory  of  thy  sires  ! 

She  is  a peasant.  In  her  veins 
Flows  common  and  plebeian  blood ; 

It  is  such  as  daily  and  hourly  stains 
The  dust  and  the  turf  of  battle  plains, 
By  vassals  shed,  in  a crimson  flood. 
Without  reserve,  and  without  reward. 
At  the  slightest  summons  oftheirlord  ! 
But thineis precious:  thefore-appointed 
Blood  of  kings,  of  God’s  anointed  ! 
Moreover,  what  has  the  world  in  store 
For  one  like  her,  but  tears  and  toil  ? 
Daughter  of  sorrow,  serf  of  the  soil, 

A peasant’s  child  and  a peasant’s  wife. 
And  her  soul  within  her  sick  and  sore 


With  the  roughness  and  barrenness  of 
life  ! 

I marvel  not  at  the  heart’s  recoil 
From  a fate  like  this,  in  one  so  tender. 
Nor  at  its  eagerness  to  surrender 
All  the  wretchedness,  want,  and  woe 
That  await  it  in  this  world  below. 

For  the  unutterable  splendor 
Of  the  world  of  rest  beyond  the  skies. 
So  the  Church  sanctions  the  sacrifice  : 
Therefore  inhale  this  healing  balm. 

And  breathe  this  fresh  life  into  thine; 
Accept  the  comfort  and  the  calm 
She  offers,  as  a gift  divine  ; 

Let  her  fall  down  and  anoint  thy  feet 
With  the  ointment  costly  and  most  sweet 
Of  her  young  blood,  and  thou  shalt  live. 
Prince  Henry.  And  will  the  right- 
eous Heaven  forgive? 

No  action,  whether  foul  or  fair. 

Is  ever  done,  but  it  leaves  somewhere 
A record,  written  by  fingers  ghostly. 

As  a blessing  or  a curse,  and  mostly 
In  the  greater  weakness  or  greater 
strength 

Of  the  acts  which  follow  it,  till  at  length 
The  wrongs  of  ages  are  redressed. 

And  the  justice  of  God  made  manifest ! 
Lucifer.  In  ancient  records  it  is 
stated 

That,  whenever  an  evil  deed  is  done. 

Another  devil  is  created 

To  scourge  and  torment  the  offending 

But  evil  is  only  good  perverted. 

And  Lucifer,  the  Bearer  of  Light, 

But  an  angel  fallen  and  deserted. 
Thrust  from  his  Father’s  house  with  a 
curse 

Into  the  black  and  endless  night. 
Prince  Henry.  If  justice  rules,  the 
universe. 

From  the  good  actions  of  good  men 
Angels  of  light  should  be  begotten. 

And  thus  the  balance  restored  again. 
Lucifer.  Yes  ; if  the  world  were  not 
so  rotten. 

And  so  given  over  to  the  Devil ! 

Prince  Henry.  But  this  deed,  is  it 
good  or  evil  ? 

Have  I thine  absolution  free 
To  do  it,  and  without  restriction  ? 
Lucifer.  Ay ; and  from  whatsoever 
sin 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Lieth  around  it  and  within, 

From  all  crimes  in  which  it  may  involve 
thee, 

I now  release  thee  and  absolve  thee ! 
Prince  Henry.  Give  me  thy  holy 
benediction. 

Lucifer  {stretching  forth  his  hand 
and  muttering). 
Maledictione  perpetua 
Maledicat  vos 
Pater  etemus  ! 

The  A ngel  {-with  the  ceolian  harp). 
Take  heed  ! take  heed  ! 

Noble  art  thou  in  thy  birth. 

By  the  good  and  the  great  of  earth 
Hast  thou  been  taught ! 

Be  noble  in  every  thought 
And  in  every  deed  ! 

Let  not  the  illusion  of  thy  senses 
Betray  thee  to  deadly  offences. 

Be  strong  ! be  good  ! be  pure  ! 

The  right  only  shall  endure. 

All  things  else  are  but  false  pretences. 
I entreat  thee,  I implore. 

Listen  no  more 

To  the  suggestions  of  an  evil  spirit. 
That  even  now  is  there. 

Making  the  foul  seem  fair. 

And  selfishness  itself  a virtue  and  a 
merit  ! 

A room  in  the  farm-house. 
Gottlieb.  It  is  decided  ! For  many 
days. 

And  nights  as  many,  we  have  had 
A nameless  terror  in  our  breast. 
Making  us  timid,  and  afraid 
Of  God,  and  his  mysterious  ways  ! 

We  have  been  sorrowful  and  sad  ; 
Much  have  we  suffered,  much  have 
prayed 

That  he  would  lead  us  as  is  best. 

And  show  us  what  his  will  required. 

It  is  decided  ; and  we  give 
Our  child,  O Prince,  that  you  may  live  ! 
Ursula.  It  is  of  God.  He  has  in- 
spired 

This  purpose  in  her  ; and  through  pain. 
Out  of  a world  of  sin  and  woe. 

He  takes  her  to  himself  again. 

The  mother’s  heart  resists  no  longer ; 
With  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  in  vain 
It  wrestled,  for  he  was  the  stronger. 


Gottlieb.  As  Abraham  offered  long 
ago 

His  son  unto  the  Lord,  and  even 
The  Everlasting  Father  in  heaven 
Gave  his,  as  a lamb  unto  the  slaughter, 
So  do  I offer  up  my  daughter  ! 

(Ursula  hides  her face.) 

Elsie.  My  life  is  little. 

Only  a cup  of  water. 

But  pure  and  limpid. 

Take  it,  O my  Prince  ! 

Let  it  refresh  you, 

Let  it  restore  you. 

It  is  given  willingly. 

It  is  given  freely ; 

May  God  bless  the  gift ! 

Prince  Henry.  And  the  giver  ! 
Gottlieb.  Amen  ! 

Prince  Henry.  I accept  it  ! 

Gottlieb.  Where  are  the  children  ? 
Ursula.  They  are  already  asleep. 
Gottlieb.  What  if  they  were  dead  ? 
In  the  garden. 

Elsie.  I have  one  thing  to  ask  of 
you. 

Prince  He7try.  What  is  it  ? 

It  is  already  granted. 

Elsie.  Promise  me. 

When  we  are  gone  from  here,  and  on 
our  way 

Are  journeying  to  Salerno,  you  will 
not. 

By  word  or  deed,  endeavor  to  dissuade 
me 

And  turn ' me  from  my  purpose ; but 
remember 

That  as  a pilgrim  to  the  Holy  City 
Walks  unmolested,  and  with  thoughts 
of  pardon 

Occupied  wholly,  so  would  I approach 
The  gates  of  Heaven,  in  this  great 
jubilee. 

With  my  petition,  putting  off  from  me 
All  thoughts  of  earth,  as  shoes  from  oS 
my  feet.  _ 

Promise  me  this. 

Prince  Henry.  Thy  words  fall  from 
thy  lips 

Like  roses  from  the  lips  of  Angelo : 
and  angels 

Might  stoop  to  pick  them  up  ! 

Elsie.  Will  you  not  promise? 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND.  89 


Prince  Henry.  If  ever  we  depart 
upon  this  journey. 

So  long  to  one  or  both  of  us,  I promise. 
Elsie.  Shall  we  not  go,  then  ? Have 
you  lifted  me 

Into  the  air,  only  to  hurl  me  back 
Wounded  upon  the  ground?  and  of- 
fered me 

The  waters  of  eternal  life,  to  bid  me 
Drink  the  polluted  puddlesof thisworld? 
Prince  Henry.  O Elsie  ! what  a 
lesson  thou  dost  teach  me  ! 

The  life  which  is,  and  that  which  is  to 
come, 

Suspended  hang  in  such  nice  equipoise 
A breath  disturbs  the  balance ; and 
that  scale 

In  which  we  throw  our  hearts  prepon- 
derates. 

And  the  other,  likean  empty  one,  flies  up. 
And  is  accounted  vanity  and  air  ! 

To  me  the  thought  of  death  is  terrible. 
Having  such  hold  on  life.  To  thee  it 
is  not 

So  much  even  as  the  lifting  of  a latch  ; 
Only  a step  into  the  open  air 
Out  of  a tent  already  luminous 
With  light  that  shines  through  its  trans- 
parent walls ! 

O pure  in  heart  ! from  thy  sweet  dust 
shall  grow 

Lilies,  upon  whose  petals  will  be  written 
“ Ave  Maria”  in  characters  of  gold  ! 

III. 

A street  in  Strasburg’.  Night. 
Prince  Henry  wandering,  alone, 
wrapped  in  a cloak. 

Prince  Henry.  Still  is  the  night. 
The  sound  of  feet 

Has  died  away  from  the  empty  street. 
And  like  an  artisan,  bending  down 
His  head  on  his  anvil,  the  dark  town 
Sleeps,  with  a slumber  deep  and  sweet. 
Sleepless  and  restless,  I alone. 

In  the  dusk  and  damp  of  these  walls  of 
stone. 

Wander  and  weep  in  my  remorse  ! 
Crier  of  the  Dead  {ringing  a belt). 
W ake ! wake ! 

All  ye  that  sleep  ! 

Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 

Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 


Prince  Henry.  Hark ! with  what 
accents  loud  and  hoarse 
This  warder  on  the  walls  of  death 
Sends  forth  the  challenge  of  his  breath  1 
I see  the  dead  that  sleep  in  the  grave  ! 
They  rise  up  and  their  garments  wave, 
Dimly  and  spectral,  as  they  rise. 

With  the  light  of  another  world  in  their 
eyes  ! 

Crier  of  the  Dead. 

Wake  ! wake  ! 

All  ye  that  sleep  ! 

Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 

Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 

Prince  Henry.  Why  for  the  dead, 
who  are  at  rest  ? 

Pray  for  the  living,  in  whose  breast 
The  struggle  between  right  and  wrong 
Is  raging  terrible  and  strong. 

As  when  good  angels  war  with  devils  ! 
This  is  the  Master  of  the  Revels, 

Who,  at  Life’s  flowing  feast,  proposes 
Thehealthofabsentfriends,  and  pledges, 
Not  in  bright  gobl ets  crowned  with  roses. 
And  tinkling  as  we  touch  their  edges. 
But  with  his  dismal,  tinkling  bell. 

That  mocks  and  mimics  their  funeral 
knell ! 

Crier  of  the  Dead. 

Wake  ! wake ! 

All  ye  that  sleep  ! 

Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 

Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 

Prince  Henry.  W ake  not,  beloved  ! 
be  thy  sleep 

Silent  as  night  is,  and  as  deep  ! 

There  walks  a sentinel  at  thy  gate 
Whose  heart  is  heavy  and  desolate. 
And  the  heavings  of  whose  bosom 
number 

The  respirations  of  thy  slumber, 

As  if  some  strange,  mysterious  fate  _ 
Had  linked  two  hearts  in  one,  and  mine 
Went  madly  wheeling  about  thine. 
Only  with  wider  and  wilder  sweep  ! 
Crier  of  the  Dead  {at  a distance). 
Wake  ! wake  ! 

All  ye  that  sleep  ! 

Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 

Pray  for  the  Dead  1 


go 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Prince  Henry  Lo ! with  what 
depth  of  blackness  thrown 
Against  the  clouds,  far  up  the  skies 
The  walls  of  the  cathedral  rise, 

Like  a mysterious  grove  of  stone, 
Withfitful  lights  and  shadows  blending, 
As  from  behind,  the  moon,  ascending, 
Lightsits  dim  aisles  and  pathsunknown  1 
The  wind  is  rising  ; but  the  boughs 
Rise  not  and  fall  not  with  the  wind 
Tliatthro’ their  foliage  sobs  and  soughs; 
Only  the  cloudy  rack  behind, 

Drifting  onward,  wild  and  ragged. 
Gives  to  each  spire  and  buttress  jagged 
A seeming  motion  undefined. 

Below  on  the  square,  an  armed  knight, 
Still  as  a statue  and  as  white, 

Sits  on  his  steed,  and  the  moonbeams 
quiver 

Upon  the  points  of  his  armor  bright 
As  on  the  ripples  of  a river. 

He  lifts  the  visor  from  his  cheek. 

And  beckons,  and  makes  as  he  would 
speak. 

Walter  the  Min7tesinger.  Friend  ! 
can  you  tell  me  where  alight 
Thuringia’s  horsemen  for  the  night? 
For  I have  lingered  in  the  rear. 

And  wander  vainly  up  and  down. 
Prince  Henry.  I am  a stranger  in 
the  town, 

As  thou  art ; but  the  voice  I hear 
Is  not  a stranger  to  mine  ear. 

Thou  art  Walter  of  the  Vogel  weid  ! 
Walter.  Thou  hast  guessed  rightly  ; 
and  thy  name 
Is  Henry  of  Hoheneck  ! 

Prince  Henry.  Ay,  the  same. 

Walter  {embracing  him^.  Come 
closer,  closer  to  my  side  1 
What  brings  thee  hither  ? What  potent 
charm 

Has  drawn  thee  from  thy  German  farm 
Into  the  old  Alsatian  city  ? 

Prince  Henry.  A tale  of  wonder  and 
of  pity  ! 

A wretched  man,  almost  by  stealth 
Dragging  my  body  to  Salem, 

In  the  vain  hope  and  search  for  health. 
And  destined  never  to  return. 

Already  thou  hast  heard  the  rest. 

But  what  brings  thee,  thus  armed  and 
dight 

In  the  equipments  of  a knight  ? 


Walter.  Dost  thou  not  see  upon  my 
breast 

The  cross  of  the  Crusa  iers  shine  ? 

My  pathway  leads  to  Palestine. 

Prince  Hettry.  Ah.  vould  that  way 
were  also  mine  ! 

0 noble  poet  ! thou  whose  heart 
Is  like  a nest  of  singing  birds 
Rocked  on  the  topmost  bough  of  life. 
Wilt  thou,  too,  from  ouj-  sky  depart, 
And  in  the  clangor  of  the  strife 
Mingle  the  music  of  thy  words  ? 

Walter.  My  hopes  are  high,  my 
heart  is  proud. 

And  like  a trumpet  long  and  loud. 
Thither  jny  thoughts  all  clang  and  ring  ! 
My  life  is  in  my  hand,  and  lo  ! 

1 grasp  and  bend  it  as  a bow. 

And  shoot  forth  from  its  trembling  string 
An  arrow,  that  shall  be,  perchance. 
Like  the  arrow  of  the  Israelite  king 
Shot  from  the  window  toward  the  east. 
That  of  the  Lord’s  deliverance  ! 

Prince  Henry.  My  life,  alas  ! is  what 
thou  seest  ! 

0 enviable  fate  ! to  be 

Strong,  beautiful,  and  armed  like  thee 
With  lyre  and  sword,  with  song  and 
steel ; 

A hand  to  smite,  a heart  to  feel  ! 

Thy  heart,  thy  hand,  thy  lyre,  thy  sword. 
Thou  givest  all  unto  thy  Lord  ; 

While  I,  so  mean  and  abject  grown, 
Am  thinking  of  myself  alone. 

Walter.  Be  patient : Time  will  rein- 
state 

Thy  health  and  fortunes. 

Prince  Henry.  ’T  is  too  late  ! 

1 cannot  strive  against  my  fate  ! 
Walter.  Come  with  me ; for  my 

steed  is  weary ; 

Our  journey  has  been  long  and  dreary. 
And,  dreaming  of  his  stall,  he  dints 
With  his  impatient  hoofs  the  flints. 
Prince  Henry  {aside).  I am  ashamed, 
in  my  disgrace. 

To  look  into  that  noble  face  ! 
To-morrow,  Walter,  let  it  be. 

Walter.  To-morrow,  at  the  dawn  of 
day, 

I shall  again  be  on  my  way. 

Come  with  me  to  the  hostelry. 

Fori  have  many  things  to  say. 

Our  journey  into  Italy 


THE  GOLDEN-  LEGEND. 


91 


Perchance  together  we  may  make  ; 
Wilt  thou  not  do  it  for  my  sake? 
Prince  Henry.  A sick  man’s  pace 
would  but  impede 
Thine  eager  and  impatient  speed. 
Besides,  my  pathway  leads  me  round 
To  Hirschau,  in  the  forest’s  bound, 
Where  I assemble  man  and  steed, 

And  all  things  for  my  journey’s  need. 

( They  go  out.) 

Lucifer  {flying over  the  city).  Sleep, 
sleep,  O city  ! till  the  light 
Wake  you  to  sin  and  crime  again. 
Whilst  on  your  dreams,  like  dismal  rain, 
I scatter  downward  through  the  night 
My  maledictions  dark  and  deep. 

1 have  more  martyrs  in  your  walls 
Than  God  has  ; and  they  cannot  sleep  ; 
They  are  my  bondsmen  and  my  thralls  ; 
Their  wretched  lives  are  full  of  pain. 
Wild  agonies  of  nerve  and  brain  ; 

And  every  heart-beat,  every  breath, 

Is  a convulsion  worse  than  death  ! 
Sleep,  sleep,  O city  ! though  within 
The  circuit  of  your  walls  there  be 
No  habitation  free  from  sin, 

And  all  its  nameless  misery  ; 

The  aching  heart,  the  aching  head. 
Grief  for  the  living  and  the  dead. 

And  foul  corruption  of  the  time. 
Disease,  distress,  and  want,  and  woe, 
And  crimes,  and  passions  that  may  grow 
Until  they  ripen  into  crime  ! 

Square  in  front  of  the  Cathedral. 
Easter  Sunday.  Friar  Cuthbert 
preaching  to  the  crowd  from  a pulpit 
hi  the  open  air.  Prince  Henry 
and  Elsie  crossing  the  square. 
Prince  Henry.  This  is  the  day, 
when  from  the  dead 
Our  Lord  arose  ; and  everywhere. 

Out  of  their  darkness  and  despair, 
Triumphant  over  fears  and  foes. 

The  hearts  of  his  disciples  rose. 

When  to  the  women,  standing  near. 
The  Angel  in  shining  vesture  said, 
“The  Lord  is  risen  ; he  is  not  here  ! ” 
And,  mindful  that  the  dajr  is  come. 

On  all  the  hearths  in  Christendom 
The  fires  are  quenched,  to  be  again 
Rekindled  from  the  sun,  that  high 
Is  dancing  in  the  cloudless  sky.. 


The  churches  are  all  decked  with  flow- 
ers. 

The  salutations  among  men 
Are  but  the  Angel’s  words  divine, 

“ Christ  is  arisen  ! ” and  the  bells 
Catch  the  glad  murmur,  as  it  swells. 
And  chant  together  in  their  towers. 

All  hearts  are  glad ; and  free  from  care 
The  faces  of  the  people  shine. 

See  what  a crowd  is  in  the  square, 
Gayly  and  gallantly  arrayed  ! 

Elsie.  Let  us  go  back  ; I am  afraid  ! 

Prince  Henry.  Nay,  let  us  mount 
the  church-steps  here. 

Under  the  doorway’s  sacred  shadow  ; 
We  can  see  all  things,  and  be  freer 
From  the  crowd  that  madly  heaves  and 
presses  ! 

Elsie.  What  a gay  pageant  ! what 
bright  dresses  ! 

It  looks  like  a flower-besprinkled 
meadow. 

What  is  that  yonder  on  the  square  ? 

Prince  Henry.  A pulpit  in  the  open 
air. 

And  a Friar,  who  is  preaching  to  the 
crowd 

In  a voice  so  deep  and  clear  and  loud, 
That,  if  we  listen,  and  give  heed. 

His  lowest  words  will  reach  the  ear. 

Friar  Cuthbert  {gesticulating  and 
cracking  a postilion's  whip). 
What  ho  ! good  people  ! do  you 
not  hear? 

Dashing  along  at  the  top  of  his  speed, 
Booted  and  spurred,  on, his  jaded  steed, 
A courier  comes  with  words  of  cheer. 
Courier  ! what  is  the  news,  I pray  ? 

“ Christ  is  arisen  ! ” Whence  come 
you?  “From  court.” 

Then  I do  not  believe  it ; you  say  it  in 
sport. 

{Cracks  his  whip  again.) 

Ah,  here  comes  another,  riding  this 
way ; 

We  soon  shall  know  what  he  has  to 

. 

Courier  ! what  are  the  tidings  to-day? 
“Christ  is  arisen!”  Whence  come 
you?  “ From  town.” 

Then  I do  not  believe  it ; away  with 
you,  clown. 

{Cracks  his  whip  more  violently?) 


92 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


And  here  comes  a third,  who  is  spur- 
ring amain ; 

What  news  do  you  bring,  with  your 
loose-hanging  rein, 

Your  spurs  wet  with  blood,  and  your 
bridle  with  foam? 

“ Christ  is  arisen  ! ” Whence  come 
you?  “ From  Rome.” 

Ah,  now  I believe.  He  is  risen,  indeed. 
Ride  on  with  the  news,  at  the  top  of 
your  speed  ! 

{Great  applause  among  the  crawdl) 
To  come  back  to  my  text ! When  the 
news  was  first  spread 
That  Christ  was  arisen  indeed  from  the 
dead. 

Very  great  was  the  joy  of  the  angels  in 
heaven  ; 

And  as  great  the  dispute  as  to  who 
should  carry 

The  tidings  thereof  to  the  Virgin  Mary, 
Pierced  to  the  heart  with  sorrows  seven. 
Old  F ather  Adam  was  first  to  propose, 
As  being  the  author  of  all  our  woes  ; 
But  he  was  refused,  for  fear,  said  they. 
He  would  stop  to  eat  apples  on  the  way  ! 
Abel  came  next,  but  petitioned  in  vain, 
Because  he  might  meet  with  his  brother 
Cain  ! 

Noah,  too,  was  refused,  lest  his  weak- 
ness for  wine 

Should  delay  him  at  every  tavern-sign  ; 
And  John  the  Baptist  could  not  get  a 
vote. 

On  account  of  his  old-fashioned  camel’s- 
hair  coat ; 

And  the  Penitent  Thief,  who  died  on 
the  cross. 

Was  reminded  that  all  his  bones  were 
broken  ! 

Till  at  last,  when  each  in  turn  had 
spoken, 

The  company  being  still  at  a loss. 

The  Angel,  who  rolled  away  the  stone. 
Was  sent  to  the  sepulchre,  all  alone, 
And  filled  with  glory  that  gloomy  prison. 
And  said  to  the  Virgin,  “The  Lord  is 
arisen ! ” 

{The  Cathedral  hells  ring.) 

But  hark  ! the  bells  are  beginning  to 
chime  ; 

And  I feel  that  I am  growing  hoarse. 


I will  put  an  end  to  my  discourse, 

And  leave  the  rest  for  some  other  time. 
For  the  bells  themselves  are  the  best 
of  preachers ; 

Their  brazen  lips  are  learned  teachers, 
From  their  pulpits  of  stone,  in  the 
tipper  air. 

Sounding  aloft,  without  crack  or  flaw, 
Shriller  than  trumpets  under  the  Law, 
Now  a sermon  and  now  a prayer. 

The  clangorous  hammer  is  the  tongue, 
This  way,  that  way,  beaten  and  swung. 
That  from  mouth  of  brass,  as  from 
Mouth  of  Gold, 

May  be  taught  the  Testaments,  New 
and  Old. 

And  above  it  the  great  cross-beam  of 
wood 

Representeth  the  Holy  Rood, 

Upon  which,  like  the  bell,  our  hopes 
are  hung. 

And  the  wheel  wherewith  It  is  swayed 
and  rung 

Is  the  mind  of  man,  that  round  and  round 
Sways,  and  maketh  the  tongue  to  sound  ! 
And  the  rope,  with  its  twisted  cordage 
three, 

Denoteth  the  Scriptural  Trinity 
Of  Morals,  and  Symbols,  and  History ; 
And  the  upward  and  downward  mo- 
tions show 

That  we  touch  upon  matters  high  and 
low ; 

And  the  constant  change  and  transmu- 
tation 

Of  action  and  of  contemplation, 
Downward,  the  Scripture  brought  from 
on  high. 

Upward,  exalted  again  to  the  sky  ; 
Downward,  the  literal  interpretation. 
Upward,  the  Vision  and  Mystery  ! 

And  now,  my  hearers,  to  make  an  end, 
I have  only  one  word  more  to  say ; 

In  the  church,  in  honor  of  Easter  day, 
Will  be  represented  a Miracle  Play  ; 
And  I hope  you  will  all  have  the  grace 
to  attend. 

Chirst  bring  us  at  last  to  his  felicity  1 
Pax  vobiscum  ! et  Benedicite  1 
In  the  Cathedral. 

Chant. 

Kyrie  Eleison  ! 

Christe  Eleison  I 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


93 


Elsie.  I am  at  home  here  in  my 
Father’s  house  I 

These  paintings  of  the  Saints  upon  the 
walls 

Have  all  familiar  and  benignant  faces. 

Prince  Henry.  The  portraits  of  the 
family  of  God ! 

Thine  own  hereafter  shall  be  placed 
among  them. 

Elsie.  How  very  grand  it  is  and 
wonderful  ! 

Never  have  I beheld  a church  so  splen- 
did ! 

Such  columns,  and  such  arches,  and 
such  windows. 

So  many  tombs  and  statues  in  the  chap- 
els. 

And  under  them  so  many  confessionals. 

They  must  be  for  the  rich.  I should 
not  like 

To  tell  my  sins  in  such  a church  as  this. 

Who  built  it  ? 

Prmce  Henry.  A great  master  of  his 
craft, 

Erwin  von  Steinbach  ; but  not  he  alone, 

F or  many  generations  labored  with  him. 

Children  that  came  to  see  these  Saints 
in  stone. 

As  day  by  day  out  of  the  blocks  they 
rose. 

Grew  old  and  died,  and  still  the  work 
went  on. 

And  on,  and  on,  and  is  not  yetcompleted. 

The  generation  that  succeeds  our  own 

Perhaps  may  finish  it.  The  architect 

Built  his  great  heart  into  these  sculp- 
tured stones, 

And  with  him  toiled  his  children,  and 
their  lives  _ 

Were  builded,  with  his  own,  into  the 
walls. 

As  offerings  unto  God.  You  see  that 
statue 

Fixing  its  joyous,  but  deep-wrinkled 
eyes 

Upon  the  Pillar  of  the  Angels  yonder. 

That  is  the  image  of  the  master,  carved 

By  the  fair  hand  ofhis  own  child,  Sabina. 

Elsie.  How  beautiful  is  the  column 
that  he  looks  at  ! 

Prince  Henry.  That,  too,  she  sculp- 
tured. At  the  base  of  it 

Stand  the*  Evangelists ; above  their 
heads 


Four  Angels  blowing  upon  marble 
trumpets. 

And  over  them  the  blessed  Christ,  sur- 
rounded 

By  his  attendant  ministers,  upholding 
The  instruments  of  his  passion. 

Elsie.  O my  Lord  I 

Would  I could  leave  behind  me  upon 
earth 

Some  monument  to  thy  glory,  such  as 
this ! 

Prince  Henry.  A greater  monument 
_ than  this  thou  leavest 
In  thine  own  life,  all  purity  and  love  ! 
See,  too,  the  Rose,  above  the  western 
portal 

Resplendent  with  a thousand  gorgeous 
colors. 

The  perfect  flower  of  Gothic  loveliness  ! 

Elsie.  And,  in  the  gallery,  the  long 
line  of  statues, 

Christ  with  his  twelve  Apostles  watch- 
ing us ! 

Bishop  in  armor,  hooted  and 
spurred,  passes  with  his  train.) 

Prmce  Henry.  But  come  away ; we 
have  not  time  to  look. 

The  crowd  already  fills  the  church,  and 
yonder 

Upon  a stage,  a herald  with  a trumpet. 
Clad  like  the  Angel  Gabriel,  proclaims 
The  Mystery  that  will  now  be  repre- 
sented. 

THE  NATIVITY. 

A MIRACLE-PLAY. 

INTROITUS. 

PrcECo.  Come,  good  people,  all  and 
each. 

Come  and  listen  to  our  speech  ! 

In  your  presence  here  I stand, 

With  a trumpet  in  my  hand. 

To  announce  the  Easter  Play, 

Which  we  represent  to-day  ! 

First  of  all  we  shall  rehearse. 

In  our  action  and  our  verse. 

The  Nativity  of  our  Lord, 

As  written  in  the  old  record 
Of  the  Protevangelion, 

So  that  he  who  reads  may  run  ! 

{Blows  his  trumpet.) 


94 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND, 


I.  HEAVEN. 

Mercy  {at  the  feet  of  God).  Have 
pity,  Lord  ! be  not  afraid 
To  save  mankind,  whom  thou  hast 
made. 

Nor  let  the  souls  that  were  betrayed 
Perish  eternally  ! 

Justice.  It  cannot  be,  it  must  not  be  I 
When  in  the  garden  placed  by  thee, 
The  fruit  of  the  forbidden  tree 
He  ate,  and  he  must  die  ! 

Mercy.  Have  pity.  Lord  ! let  peni- 
tence 

Atone  for  disobedience, 

Nor  let  the  fruit  of  man’s  offence 
Be  endless  misery  ! 

Justice.  What  penitence  proportion- 
ate 

Can  e’er  be  felt  for  sin  so  great  ? 

Of  the  forbidden  fruit  he  ate, 

And  damned  must  he  be  ! 

God.  He  shall  be  saved,  if  that  within 
The  bounds  of  earth  one  free  from  sin 
Be  found,  who  for  his  kith  and  kin 
Will  suffer  martyrdom. 

The  Four  Virtues.  Lord  ! we  have 
searched  the  world  around. 

From  centre  to  the  utmost  bound. 

But  no  such  mortal  can  be  found  ; 
Despairing,  back  we  come. 
IVisdom.  No  mortal,  but  a God 
made  man. 

Can  ever  carry  out  this  plan. 

Achieving  what  none  other  can, 
Salvation  unto  all ! 

God.  Go,  then,  O my  beloved  Son  ! 
It  can  by  thee  alone  be  done  ; 

By  thee  the  victory  shall  be  won 
O’er  Satan  and  the  Fall  ! 

{Here  the  Angel  Gabriel  shall  leave 
Paradise  and  fly  towards  the  earth  ; 
the  jaws  of  Hell  open  below,  and  the 
Devils  walk  about,  makmg  a great 
noise.) 

II.  MARY  AT  THE  WELL. 

Mary.  Along  the  garden  walk,  and 
thence 

Through  the  wicket  in  the  garden  fence, 
I steal  with  quiet  pace. 

My  pitcher  at  the  well  to  fill. 

That  lies  so  deep  and  cool  and  still 
In  this  sequestered  place. 


These  sycamores  keep  guard  around  ; 

I see  no  face,  I hear  no  sound. 

Save  bubblings  of  the  spring. 

And  my  companions,  who  within 
The  threads  of  gold  and_  scarlet  spin. 
And  at  their  labor  sing. 

The  Angel  Gabriel.  Hail,  Virgin 
Mary,  full  of  grace  ! 

{Here  Mary  looketh  arojindher,  trem- 
bling, and  then  saith ;) 

Mary.  Who  is  it  speaketh  in  this 
place. 

With  such  a gentle  voice  ? 

Gabriel.  The  Lord  of  heaven  is  with 
thee  now  ! 

Blessed  among  all  women  thou, 

Who  art  his  holy  choice  ! 

Mary  {setting  down  the  pitcheV^. 
What  can  this  mean?  No  one 
is  near. 

And  yet,  such  sacred  words  I hear, 

I almost  fear  to  stay. 

{Here  the  Angel  appearing  to  her, 
shall  say  ;) 

Gabriel.  Fear  not,  O Mary  ! but 
believe  ! 

For  thou,  a Virgin,  shalt  conceive 
A child  this  very  day. 

Fear  not,  O Mary  ! from  the  sky 
The  majesty  of  the  Most  High 
Shall  overshadow  thee ! 

Mary.  Behold  the  handmaid  of  the 
Lord  ! 

According  to  thy  holy  word, 

So  be  it  unto  me  ! 

{Here  the  Devils  shall  again  make  a 
great  noise,  under  the  stage.) 

III.  THE  ANGELS  OF  THE  SEVEN  PLAN- 
ETS, BEARING  THE  STAR  OF  BETH-  ' 
LEHEM. 

The  Angels.  The  Angels  of  the 
Planets  Seven, 

Across  the  shining  fields  of  heaven 
The  natal  star  we  bring  ! 

Dropping  our  sevenfold  virtues  down, 
As  priceless  jewels  in  the  crown 
Of  Christ,  our  new-born  King. 
Raphael.  I am  the  Angel  of  the 
Sun, 

Whose  flaming  wheels  began  to  run 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


95 


When  God’s  almighty  breath 
Said  to  the  darkness  and  the  Night, 

Let  there  be  light ! and  there  was  light ! 
I bring  the  gift  of  faith. 

Gabriel.  I am  the  Angel  of  the 
Moon, 

Darkened,  to  be  rekindled  soon 
Beneath  the  azure  cope  ! 

Nearest  to  earth,  it  is  my  ray 
That  best  illumes  the  midnight  way. 

I bring  the  gift  of  Hope  ! 

Afiael.  The  Angel  of  the  Star  of 
Love, 

The  Evening  Star,  that  shines  above 
The  place  where  lovers  be. 

Above  all  happy  hearths  and  homes, 
On  roofs  of  thatch,  or  golden  domes, 

I give  him  Charity  ! 

Zobiachel.  The  Planet  Jupiter  is 
mine  ! 

The  mightiest  star  of  all  that  shine. 
Except  the  sun  alone  ! 

He  is  the  High  Priest  of  the  Dove, 
And  sends,  from  his  great  throne  above. 
Justice,  that  shall  atone  ! 

Michael.  The  Planet  Mercury, 
whose  place 

Is  nearest  to  the  sun  in  space. 

Is  my  allotted  sphere  ! 

And  with  celestial  ardor  swift 
I bear  upon  my  hands  the  gift 
Of  heavenly  Prudence  here  ! 

Uriel.  I am  the  Minister  of  Mars, 
The  strongest  star  among  the  stars  ! 

My  songs  of  power  prelude 
The  march  and  battle  of  man’s  life, 
And  for  the  suffering  and  the  strife, 

I give  him  Fortitude  ! 

Orifel.  The  Angel  of  the  uttermost 
Of  all  the  shining,  heavenly  host, 

From  the  far-off  expanse 
Of  the  Saturnian,  endless  space 
I bring  the  last,  the  crowning  grace, 
The  gift  of  Temperance  ! 

(A  sudden  light  shines  from  the  •win- 
dows of  the  stable  in  the  village  be- 
low.) 

IV.  THE  WISE  MEN  OF  THE  EAST. 

The  stable  of  the  Inn.  The  Virgin 
and  Child.  Three  Gypsy  Kings, 
Caspar,  Melchior,  Belshaz- 
zar, shall  come  in. 


Caspar.  Hail  to  thee,  Jesus  of  Naz- 
areth ! 

Though  in  a manger  thou  draw  breath, 
"Jliou  art  greater  than  Life  and  Death, 
Greater  than  Joy  or  Woe  ! 

This  cross  upon  the  line  of  life 
Portendeth  struggle,  toil,  and  strife. 
And  through  a region  with  peril  rife 
In  darkness  shait  thou  go  ! 
Melchior.  Hail  to  thee.  King  of 
Jerusalem  ! 

Though  humbly  born  in  Bethlehem, 

A sceptre  and  a diadem 

Await  thy  brow  and  hand  ! 

The  sceptre  is  a simple  reed. 

The  crown  will  make  thy  temples  bleed. 
And  in  thy  hour  of  greatest  need. 
Abashed  thy  subjects  stand  ! 
Belshazzar.  Hail  to  thee,  Christ  of 
Christendom  ! 

O’er  all  the  earth  thy  kingdom  come  ! 
From  distant  Trebizond  to  Rome 
Thy  name  shall  men  adore  ! 

Peace  and  good-will  among  all  men, 
The  Virgin  has  returned  again. 
Returned  the  old  Saturnian  reign 
And  Golden  Age  once  more. 

The  Child  Christ.  Jesus,  the  Son 
of  God,  am  I, 

Born  here  to  suffer  and  to  die 
According  to  the  prophecy. 

That  other  men  may  live  ! 

The  Virgin.  And  now  these  clothes, 
that  wrapped  him,  take 
And  keep  them  precious,  for  his  sake  ; 
Our  benediction  thus  we  make. 

Naught  else  have  we  to  give. 

{She  gives  them  swaddling-clothes, 
and  they  depart.) 

V.  THE  FLIGHT  INTO  EGYPT. 

{Here  shall  Joseph  come  in,  leading 
an  ass,  on  which  are  seated  Mary 
and  tM  Child.) 

Mary.  Here  willwe  rest  us,  underthese 
O’erhanging  branches  of  the  trees. 
Where  robins  chant  their  Litanies 
And  canticles  of  joy. 

Joseph.  My  saddle-girths  have  given 
way 

With  trudging  through  the  heat  to-day  ; 
To  you  I think  it  is  but  play 
To  ride  and  hold  the  boy. 


96 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Mary.  Hark  ! how  the  robins  shout 
and  sing, 

As  if  to  hail  their  infant  King  ! 

I will  alight  at  yonder  spring 
To  wash  his  little  coat. 

Joseph.  And  I will  hobble  well  the 

Lest,  being  loose  upon  the  grass, 

He  should  escape ; for,  by  the  mass, 
He ’s  nimble  as  a goat. 

{^Here  Mary  shall  alight  and  go  to  the 
spring.) 

Mary.  O Joseph  ! I am  much  afraid, 
For  men  are  sleeping  in  the  shade  ; 

I fear  that  we  shall  be  waylaid. 

And  robbed  and  beaten  sore  ! 

{_H ere  a hand  of  robbers  shall  be  seen 
sleeping,  two  of  whom  shall  rise  attd 
come  forwardi) 

Dumachus.  Cock’s  soul ! deliver  up 
your  gold  ! 

Joseph.  I pray  you,  Sirs,  let  go  your 
hold  ! 

You  see  that  I am  weak  and  old. 

Of  wealth  I have  no  store. 
Dumachus.  Give  up  your  money  ! 

T ihts.  Prithee  cease. 

Let  these  good  people  go  in  peace. 

Dumachus.  First  let  them  pay  for 
, their  release. 

And  then  go  on  their  way. 

Titus.  These  forty  groats  I give  in  fee. 
If  thou  wilt  only  silent  be. 

Mary.  May  God  be  merciful  to  thee. 
Upon  the  Judgment  Day  ! 

Jesus.  When  thirty  years  shall  have 
gone  by, 

I at  Jerusalem  shall  die. 

By  Jewish  hands  exalted  high 
On  the  accursed  tree. 

Then  on  my  right  and  my  left  side. 
These  thieves  shall  both  be  crucified. 
And  Titus  thenceforth  shall  abide 
In  paradise  with  me. 

(Here  a great  mimor  of  trumpets  and 
horses,  like  the  noise  of  a king  with 
his  army,  and  the  robbers  shall  take 
flight.) 

VI.  THE  SLAUGHTER  OF  THE  INNO- 
CENTS. 

King  Herod.  Potz-tausend  ! Him- 
mel-sacrament  1 


Filled  am  I %vith  great  wonderment 
At  this  unwelcome  news  ! 

Am  I not  Herod?  Who  shall  dare 
My  crown  to  take,  my  sceptre  bear, 

As  king  among  the  Jews  ? 

(Here  he  shall  stride  up  and  down  and 
flourish  his  sword.) 

What  ho  ! I fain  would  drink  a can 
Of  the  strong  wine  of  Canaan  ! 

The  wine  of  Helbon  bring 
I purchased  at  the  Fair  of  Tyre, 

As  red  as  blood,  as  hot  as  fire. 

And  fit  for  any  king  ! 

(He  quaffs  great  goblets  of  wine.) 
Now  at  the  window  will  I stand. 

While  in  the  street  the  armed  band 
The  little  children  slay  : 

The  babe  just  born  in  Bethlehem 
Will  surely  slaughtered  be  with  them. 
Nor  live  another  day  ! 

(Here  a voice  of  lajjientation  shall  be 
heard  hi  the  street.) 

Rachel.  O wicked  king  ! O cruel 
speed ! 

To  do  this  most  unrighteous  deed  ! 

My  children  all  are  slain  : 

Herod.  Ho,  seneschal ! another  cup ! 
With  wine  of  Sorek  fill  it  up  ! 

I would  a bumper  drain  ! 

Rahab.  May  maledictions  fall  and 
blast 

Thyself  and  lineage,  to  the  last 
Of  all  thy  kith  and  kin  ! 

Herod.  Another  goblet  ! quick  ! and 
stir 

Pomegranate  juice  and  drops  of  myrrh 
And  calamus  therein  ! 

Soldiers  (in  the  street).  Give  up  thy 
child  into  our  hands  ! 

It  is  King  Herod  who  commands 
That  he  should  thus  be  slain  ! 

The  Nurse  Medusa.  O monstrous 
men  ! What  have  ye  done  1 
It  is  King  Herod’s  only  son 
That  ye  have  cleft  in  twain  ! 
Herod.  Ah,  luckless  day  ! What 
words  of  fear 

Are  these  that  smite  upon  my  ear 
With  such  a doleful  sound  ! 

What  torments  rack  my  heart  and  head  1 
Would  I were  dead  ! would  1 were  dead. 
And  buried  in  the  ground  ! 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


97 


{^He  falls  down  and  writhes  as  though 
eaten  by  worms.  Hell  opens,  and 
Satan  and  Astaroth  come  forth, 
and  drag  him  down.) 

VII.  JESUS  at  play  with  his  school- 
mates. 

Jesus.  The  shower  is  over.  Let  us 
play, 

And  make  some  sparrows  out  of  clay, 
Down  by  the  river’s  side. 

Judas.  See,  how  the  stream  has  over- 
flowed 

Its  banks,  and  o’er  the  meadow  road 
Is  spreading  far  and  wide  ! 

( They  draw  water  otit  of  the  river  by 
channels,  and  form  little  pools.  J E- 
sus  makes  twelve  sparrows  of  clay, 
atid  the  other  boys  do  the  same.) 
Jesus.  Look  ! look  ! how  prettily  I 
make 

These  little  sparrows  by  the  lake 

Bend  down  their  necks  and  drink  ! 
Now  will  I make  them  sing  and  soar 
So  far,  they  shall  return  no  more 
Unto  this  river’s  brink. 

Judas.  That  canst  thou  not  ! They 
are  but  clay. 

They  cannot  sing,  nor  fly  away 
Above  the  meadow  lands  ! 

Jeszts.  Fly,  fly  ! ye  sparrows  ! you 
are  free  ! 

And  while  you  live,  remember  me 
Who  made  you  with  my  hands. 
{Here  Jesus  shall  clap  his  hands,  and 
the  sparrows  shall  fly  away,  chir- 
ruping. ) 

Judas.  Thou  art  a sorcerer,  I know  ; 
Oft  has  my  mother  told  me  so, 

I will  not  play  with  thee  ! 

{He  strikes  Jesus  on  the  right  side.) 
Jesus.  Ah,  Judas  ! thou  hast  smote 
my  side, 

And  when  I shall  be  crucified, 

There  shall  I pierced  be  ! 

{Here  Joseph  shall  come  in,  and  say  :) 
Joseph.  Ye  wicked  boys  ! why  do  ye 
play, 

And  break  the  holy  Sabbath  day  ? 
What,  think  ye,  will  your  mothers  say 
7 


To  see  you  in  such  plight  ! 

In  such  a sweat  and  such  a heat, 

With  all  that  mud  upon  your  feet  ! 
There ’s  not  a beggar  in  the  street 
Makes  such  a sorry  sight  ! 

VIII.  THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL. 

{The  Rabbi  Ben  Israel,  with  a long 
beard,  sitting  on  a high  stool,  with 
a rod  in  his  hand.) 

Rabbi.  I am  the  Rabbi  Ben  Israel, 
Throughout  this  village  known  full  well, 
And,  as  my  scholars  all  will  tell. 
Learned  in  things  divine  ; 

The  Cabala  and  Talmud  hoar 
Than  all  the  prophets  prize  I more, 

For  water  is  all  Bible  lore. 

But  Mishna  is  strong  wine. 

My  fame  extends  from  West  to  East, 
And  always,  at  the  Purim  feast, 

I am  as  drunk  as  any  beast. 

That  wallows  in  his  sty  : 

The  wine  it  so  elateth  me. 

That  I no  difference  can  see 
Between  “ Accursed  Haman  be  ! ” 
And  “ Blessed  be  Mordecai  ! ” 
Come  hither,  Judas  Iscariot ; 

Say,  if  thy  lesson  thou  hast  got 
From  the  Rabbinical  Book  or  not. 
Why  howl  the  dogs  at  night  ? 
Judas.  In  the  Rabbinical  Book,  it 
saith 

The  dogs  howl,  when  with  icy  breath 
Great  Sammael,  the  Angel  of  Death, 
Takes  through  the  town  his  flight  ! 
•Rabbi.  Well,  boy  ! now  say,  if  thou 
art  wise. 

When  the  Angel  of  Death,  who  is  full 
of  eyes. 

Comes  where  a sick  man  dying  lies, 
What  doth  he  to  the  wight? 

Judas.  He  stands  beside  him,  dark 
and  tall. 

Holding  a sword,  from  which  doth  fall 
Into  his  mouth  a drop  of  gall, 

And  so  he  turneth  white. 

Rabbi.  And  now,  my  Judas,  say  to 
me 

What  the  great  Voices  Four  may  be. 
That  quite  across  the  world  do  flee. 
And  are  not  heard  by  men  ? 

Judas.  The  Voice  of  the  Sun  in 
heaven’s  dome, 


98 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


The  Voice  of  the  Murmuring  of  Rome, 
The  Voice  of  a Soul  that  goeth  home, 
And  the  Angel  of  the  Rain  ! 

Rabbi.  Right  are  thine  answers  ev- 
ery one  ! 

Now  little  Jesus,  the  carpenter’s  son. 
Let  us  see  how  thy  task  is  done, 

Canst  thou  thy  letters  say  ? 

Jesus.  Aleph. 

Rabbi.  What  next  ? Do  not  stop  yet ! 
Go  on  with  all  the  alphabet. 

Come,  Aleph,  Beth  ; dost  thou  forget  ? 
Cock’s  soul ! thou  ’dst  rather  play  ! 
Jesus.  What  Aleph  means  I fain 
would  know, 

Before  I any  further  go  ! 

Rabbi,  O,  by  Saint  Peter  ! wouldst 
thou  so? 

Come  hither,  boy,  to  me. 

As  surely  as  the  letter  Jod 

Once  cried  aloud,  and  spake  to  God, 

So  surely  shalt  thou  feel  this  rod, 

And  punished  shalt  thou  be  ! 

Here  Rabbi  Ben  Israel  shall  lift  up 
his  rodto  strike  and  his  right 

arjn  shall  be pa?-alyzed.') 

IX.  CROWNED  WITH  FLOWERS. 
(Jesus  sitting  among  his  playmates 
crowned  with  flowers  as  their  King.') 
Boys.  We  spread  our  garments  on 
the  ground  ! 

With  fragrant  flowers  thy  head  is 
crowned. 

While  like  a guard  we  stand  around. 
And  hail  thee  as  our  King  ! 

Thou  art  the  new  King  of  the  Jews  ! 
Nor  let  the  passers-by  refuse 
To  bring  that  homage  which  men  use 
To  majesty  to  bring. 

{Here  a traveller  shall  go  by,  and  the 
boys  shall  lay  hold  of  his  garments 
atid  say :) 


Boys.  Come  hither ! and  all  rever- 
ence pay 

Unto  our  monarch,  crowned  to-day  ! 
Then  go  rejoicing  on  your  way. 

In  all  prosperity  ! 

Traveller.  Hail  to  the  King  of 
Bethlehem, 

Who  weareth  in  his  diadem 
The  yellow  crocus  for  the  gem 
Of  his  authority  ! ' 

{He  passes  by  ; and  others  come  in, 
bearing  on  a litter  a sick  child.) 
Boys.  Set  down  the  litter  and  draw 
near  ! 

The  King  of  Bethlehem  is  here  ! 

What  ails  the  child,  who  seems  to  fear 
That  we  shall  do  him  harm? 

The  Bearers.  He  climbed  up  to  the 
robin’s  nest, 

And  out  there  darted,  from  his  rest, 

A serpent  with  a crimson  crest. 

And  stung  him  in  the  arm. 

Jesus.  Bring  him  to  me,  and  let  me 
feel 

The  wounded  place  ; my  touch  can  heal 
The  sting  of  serpents,  and  can  steal 
The  poison  from  the  bite  ! 

{He  touches  the  wotind,  and  the  boy 
begins  to  cry.) 

Cease  to  lament ! I can  foresee 
That  thou  hereafter  known  shalt  be 
Among  the  men  who  follow  me. 

As  Simon  the  Canaanite  ! 

EPILOGUE. 

In  the  after  part  of  the  day 
Will  be  represented  another  play. 

Of  the  Passion  of  our  Blessed  Lord, 
Beginning  directly  after  Nones  ! 

At  the  close  of  which  we  shall  accord, 
By  way  of  benison  and  reward. 

The  sight  of  a holy  Martyr’s  bones  ! 


IV. 

The  road  to  Hirschau.  Prince  Henry  and  Elsie,  with  their  attendants,  on 
horseback.  , 

Elsie.  Onward  and  onward  the  highway  runs  to  the  distant  city,  impatiently 
bearing 

Tidings  of  human  joy  and  disaster,  of  love  and  of  hate,  of  doing  and  daring  ! 

Prince  Henry.  This  life  of  ours  is  a wild  aeolian  harp  of  many  a joyous  strain, 
But  under  them  all  there  runs  a loud  perpetual  wail,  as  of  souls  in  pain. 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


99 


Elsie.  Faith  alone  can  interpret  life,  and  the  heart  that  aches  and  bleeds  with 
the  stigma 

Of  pain,  alone  bears  the  likeness  of  Christ,  and  can  comprehend  its  dark  enigma. 

Prince  Henry.  Man  is  selfish,  and  seeketh  pleasure  with  little  care  of  what 
may  betide  ; _ 

Else  why  am  I travelling  here  beside  thee,  a demon  that  rides  by  an  angel’s  side  ? 

Elsie.  All  the  hedges  are  white  with  dust,  and  the  great  dog  under  the  creak- 
ing wain 

Hangs  his  head  in  the  lazy  heat,  while  onward  the  horses  toil  and  strain. 

Prince  Henry.  Now  they  stop  at  the  wayside  inn,  and  the  wagoner  laughs 
with  the  landlord’s  daughter, 

While  out  of  the  dripping  trough  the  horses  distend  their  leathern  sides  with  water. 

Elsie.  All  through  life  there  are  wayside  inns,  where  man  may  refresh  his  soul 
with  love ; 

Even  the  lowest  may  quench  his  thirst  at  rivulets  fed  by  springs  from  above. 

Prince  Henry.  Yonder,  where  rises  the  cross  of  stone,  our  journey  along  the 
highway  ends. 

And  over  the  fields,  by  a bridle  path,  down  into  the  broad  green  valley  descends. 

Elsie.  I am  not  sorry  to  leave  behind  the  beaten  road  with  its  dust  and  heat ; 

The  air  will  be  sweeter  far,  and  the  turf  will  be  softer  under  our  horses’  feet. 

{They  turn  down  a green  lane.) 

Elsie.  Sweet  is  the  air  with  the  budding  haws,  and  the  valley  stretching  for 
miles  below 

Is  white  with  blossoming  cherry-trees,  as  if  just  covered  with  lightest  snow. 

Prince  Henry.  Over  our  heads  a white  cascade  is  gleaming  against  the  distant  hill ; 

We  cannot  hear  it,  nor  see  it  move,  but  it  hangs  like  a banner  when  winds  are  still. 

Elsie.  Damp  and  cool  is  this  deep  ravine,  and  cool  the  sound  of  the  brook  by 
our  side  ! 

What  is  this  castle  that  rises  above  us,  and  lords  it  over  a land  so  wide? 

Prince  Henry.  It  is  the  home  of  the  Counts  of  Calva ; well  have  I known 
these  scenes  of  old. 

Well  I remember  each  tower  and  turret,  remember  the  brooklet,  the  wood,  and 
the  wold. 

Elsie.  Hark  ! from  the  little  village  below  us  the  bells  of  the  church  are  ringing 
for  rain  ! 

Priests  and  peasants  in  long  procession  come  forth  and  kneel  on  the  arid  plain. 

Prince  Henry.  They  have  not  long  to  wait,  for  I see  in  the  south  uprising  a 
little  cloud. 

That  before  the  sun  shall  be  set  will  cover  the  sky  above  us  as  with  a shroud. 
{They  pass  on.) 


The  Convent  of  Hirschau  in  the  Black 
Forest.  The  Convent  cellar.  Friar 
Claus  comes  m with  a light  and  a 
basket  of  empty  flagons. 

Friar  Claus.  I always  enter  this 
sacred  place 

With  ^ thoughtful,  solemn,  and  rever- 
_ ent  pace. 

Pausing  long  enough  on  each  stair 
To  breathe  an  ejaculatory  prayer, 

And  a benediction  on  the  vines 
lhat  produce  these  various  sorts  of 
wines ! 


For  my  part,  I am  well  content 
That  we  have  got  through  with  the 
tedious  Lent  ! 


foes  ; 

But  I am  quite  sure  it  does  not  agree 
With  a quiet,  peaceable  man  like  me. 
Who  am  not  of  that  nervous  and  meagre 
kind 

That  are  always  distressed  in  body  and 
mind ! 

And  at  times  it  really  does  me  good 


lOO 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


To  come  down  among  this  brotherhood, 
Dwelling  forever  under  ground, 

Silent,  contemplative,  round  andsound; 
Each  one  old,  and  brown  with  mould. 
But  filled  to  the  lips  with  the  ardor  of 
youth. 

With  the  latent  power  and  love  of  truth. 
And  with  virtues  fervent  and  manifold. 

I have  heard  it  said,  that  at  Easter-tide, 
When  buds  are  swelling  on  every  side, 
And  the  sap  begins  to  move  in  the  vine. 
Then  in  all  cellars,  far  and  wide. 

The  oldest,  as  well  as  the  newest,  wine 
Begins  to  stir  itself,  and  ferment. 

With  a kind  of  revolt  and  discontent 
At  being  so  long  in  darkness  pent. 

And  fain  would  burst  from  its  sombre 
tun 

To  bask  on  the  hillside  in  the  suni; 

As  in  the  bosom  of  us  poor  friars. 

The  tumult  of  half-subdued  desires  _ 
For  the  world  that  we  have  left  behind 
Disturbs  at  times  all  peace  of  mind  ! 
And  now  that  we  have  lived  through 
Lent, 

My  duty  it  is,  as  often  before. 

To  open  awhile  the  prison-door. 

And  give  these  restless  spirits  vent. 
Now  here  is  a cask  that  stands  alone. 
And  has  stood  a hundred  years  or 
more. 

Its  beard  of  cobwebs,  long  and  hoar. 
Trailing  and  sweeping  along  the  floor, 
Like  Barbarossa,  who  sits  in  his  cave. 
Taciturn,  sombre,  sedate,  and  grave. 
Till  his  beard  has  grown  through  the 
table  of  stone  ! 

It  is  of  the  quick  and  not  of  the  dead  ! 
In  its  veins  the  blood  is  hot  and  red. 
And  a heart  still  beats  in  those  ribs  of 
oak 

I'hat  time  may  have  tamed,  but  has  not 
broke  ! 

It  comes  from  Bacharach  on  the 
Rhine, 

Is  one  of  the  three  best  kinds  of  wine, 
And  costs  some  hundred  florins  the 
ohm : 

But  that  I do  not  consider  dear. 

When  I remember  that  every  year 
Four  butts  are  sent  to  the  Pope  of 
Rome. 

And  whenever  a goblet  thereof  I drain, 


The  old  rhyme  keeps  running  in  my 
brain  ; 

At  Bacharach  on  the  Rhine, 

At  Hochheim  on  the  Main, 

And  at  Wurzburg  on  the  Stein, 
Grow  the  three  best  kinds  of  wine  I 
They  are  all  good  wines,  and  better 
far 

Than  those  of  the  Neckar,  or  those  of 
the  Ahr. 

In  particular,  Wurzburg  well  may 
boast 

Of  its  blessed  wine  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
Which  of  all  wines  I like  the  most. 

This  I shall  draw  for  the  Abbot’s 
drinking, 

Who  seems  to  be  much  of  my  way  of 
thinking. 

{Fills  a flagon.') 

Ah ! how  the  streamlet  laughs  and 
sings  ! 

What  a delicious  fragrance  springs 
F rom  the  deep  flagon,  while  it  fills. 

As  of  hyacinths  and  daffodils  ! 

Between  this  cask  and  the  Abbot’s  lips 
Many  have  been  the  sips  and  slips  ; 
Many  have  been  the  draughts  of  wine. 
On  their  way  to  his,  that  have  stopped 
at  mine  ; 

And  many  a time  my  soul  has  hankered 
For  a deep  draught  out  of  his  silver 
tankard, 

When  it  should  have  been  busy  with 
other  affairs,^ 

Less  with  its  longings  and  more  with 
its  prayers. 

But  now  there  is  no  such  awkward  con- 
dition, 

No  danger  of  death  and  eternal  perdi- 
tion ; 

So  here ’s  to  the  Abbot  and  Brothers 
-all. 

Who  dwell  in  this  convent  of  Peter  and 
Paul  ! 

{He  drinks.) 

O cordial  delicious ! O soother  of 
pain  ! 

It  flashes  like  sunshine  into  my  brain  ! 
A benison  rest  on  the  Bishop  who  sends 
Such  a fudder  of  wine  as  this  to  his 
friends  1 

And  now  a flagon  for  such  as  may  ask 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


A draught  from  the  noble  Bacharach 
cask, 

And  I will  be  gone,  though  I know  full 
well 

The  cellar’s  a cheerfuller  place  than 
the  cell. 

Behold  where  he  stands,  all  sound  and 
good. 

Brown  and  old  in  his  oaken  hood  ; 
Silent  he  seems  externally 
As  any  Carthusian  monk  may  be  ; 

But  within,  what  a spirit  of  deep  un- 
rest ! 

What  a seething  and  simmering  in  his 
breast  ! 

As  if  the  heaving  of  his  great  heart 
Would  burst  his  belt  of  oak  apart ! 

Let  me  unloose  this  button  of  wood. 
And  quiet  a little  his  turbulent  mood 
(^Sets  it  running.') 

See  ! how  its  currents  gleam  and  shine, 
As  if  they  had  caught  the  purple  hues 
Of  autumn  sunsets  on  the  Rhine, 
Descending  and  mingling  with  the 
dews  ; 

Or  as  if  the  grapes  were  stained  with 
the  blood 

Of  the  innocent  boy,  who,  some  years 
back. 

Was  taken  and  crucified  by  the  Jews, 
In  that  ancient  town  of  Bacharach  ; 
Perdition  upon  those  infidel  Jews, 

In  that  ancient  town  of  Bacharach  ! 
The  beautiful  town,  that  gives  us  wine 
With  the  fragrant  odor  of  Muscadine  ! 
I should  deem  it  wrong  to  let  this  pass 
Without  first  touching  my  lips  to  the 
glass. 

For  here  in  the  midst  of  the  current  I 
stand. 

Like  the  stone  Pfalz  in  the  midst  of  the 
river. 

Taking  toll  upon  either  hand. 

And  much  more  grateful  to  the  giver. 

{He  drinks i) 

Here,  now,  is  a very  inferior  kind. 
Such  as  in  any  town  you  may  find. 
Such  as  one  might  imagine  would  suit 
The  rascal  who  drank  wine  out  of  a 
boot. 

And,  after  all,  it  was  not  a crime. 

For  he  won  thereby  Dorf  Hiiffelsheim. 


A jolly  old  toper  ! who  at  a pull 
Could  drink  a postilion’s  jack-boot  full. 
And  ask  with  a laugh,  when  that  was 
done. 

If  the  fellow  had  left  the  other  one  ! 
This  wine  is  as  good  as  we  can  afford 
To  the  friars,  who  sit  at  the  lower  board. 
And  cannot  distinguish  bad  from  good. 
And  are  far  better  off  than  if  they  could. 
Being  rather  the  rude  disciples  of  beer 
Than  of  anything  more  refined  and  dear ! 
{Fills  the  other  flagon  and  departs.) 
The  Scriptorium.  Friar  Pacificus 
transcribing  and  illuminating. 
Friar  Pacificus.  1 1 is  growing  dark  ! 
Yet  one  line  more. 

And  then  my  work  for  to-day  is  o’er. 

I come  again  to  the  name  of  the  Lord  I 
Ere  I that  awful  name  record. 

That  is  spoken  so  lightly  among  men, 
Let  me  pause  awhile,  and  wash  my  pen  ; 
Pure  from  blemish  and  blot  must  it  be 
When  it  writes  that  word  of  mystery  ! 
Thus  have  I labored  on  and  on. 

Nearly  through  the  Gospel  of  John. 
Can  it  be  that  from  the  lips 
Of  this  same  gentle  Evangelist, 

That  Christ  himself  perhaps  has  kissed. 
Came  the  dread  Apocalypse  ! 

It  has  a very  awful  look. 

As  it  stands  there  at  the  end  of  the  book, 
Like  the  sun  in  an  eclipse. 

Ah  me  ! when  I think  of  that  vision 
divine. 

Think  of  writing  it,  line  by  line, 

I stand  in  awe  of  the  terrible  curse. 
Like  the  trump  of  doom,  in  the  closing 
verse  ! 

God  forgive  me  ! if  ever  I 
Take  aught  from  the  book  of  that 
Prophecy, 

Lest  my  part  too  should  be  taken  away 
From  the  Book  of  Life  on  the  Judg- 
ment Day. 

This  is  well  written,  though  I sa}^  it  ! 

I should  not  be  afraid  to  display  it. 

In  open  day,  on  the  selfsame  shelf 
With  the  writings  of  St.  Theda  herself 
Or  of  Theodosius,  who  of  old 
Wrote  the  Gospels  in  letters  of  gold  ! 
That  goodly  folio  standing  yonder. 
Without  a single  blot  or  blunder. 


102 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Would  not  bear  away  the  palm  from 
mine, 

If  we  should  compare  them  line  for  line. 
There,  now,  is  an  initial  letter  ! 

Saint  Ulrichimselfnever  made  abetter  ! 
Finished  down  to  the  leaf  and  the  snail, 
Down  to  the  eyes  on  the  peacock’s  tail ! 
And  now,  as  I turn  the  volume  over. 
And  see  what  lies  between  cover  and 
cover. 

What  treasures  of  art  these  pages  hold, 
All  ablaze  with  crimson  and  gold, 

God  forgive  me  ! I seem  to  feel 
A certain  satisfaction  steal 
Into  my  heart,  and  into  my  brain, 

As  if  my  talent  had  not  lain 
Wrapped  in  a napkin,  and  all  in  vain. 
Yes,  I might  almost  say  to  the  Lord, 
Here  is  a copy  of  thy  Word, 

Written  out  with  much  toil  and  pain  ; 
Take  it,  O Lord,  and  let  it  be 
As  something  I have  done  for  thee  ! 

{He  looks  from  the  window.') 
How  sweet  the  air  is  ! How  fair  the 
scene  ! 

I wish  I had  as  lovely  a green 
To  paint  my  landscapes  and  my  leaves  ! 
How  the  swallows  twitter  under  the 
eaves ! 

There,  now,  there  is  one  in  her  nest ; 

I can  just  catch  a glimpse  of  her  head 
and  breast. 

And  will  sketch  her  thus,  in  her  quiet 
nook. 

For  the  margin  of  my  Gospel  book. 

(He  makes  a sketch.) 

I can  see  no  more.  Through  the  val- 
ley yonder 

A shower  is  passing  ; I hear  the  thun- 
der 

Mutter  its  curses  in  the  air. 

The  Devil’s  own  and  only  prayer  ! 

The  dusty  road  is  brown  with  rain. 
And,  speeding  on  with  might  and  main. 
Hitherward  rides  a gallant  train. 

They  do  not  parley,  they  cannot  wait. 
But  hurry  in  at  the  convent  gate. 

What  a fair  lady  ! and  beside  her 
What  a handsome,  graceful,  noble 
rider  ! 

Now  she  gives  him  her  hand  to  alight ; 
They  will  beg  a shelter  for  the  night. 


I will  go  down  to  the  corridor. 

And  try  to  see  that  face  once  more  ; 

It  will  do  for  the  face  of  some  beautiful 
Saint, 

Or  for  one  of  the  Maries  I shall  paint. 
(Goes  out.) 

The  Cloisters.  The  Abbot  Ernes- 
tos pacing  to  and fro. 

A bbot.  Slowly,  slowly  up  the  wall 
Steals  the  sunshine,  steals  the  shade 
Evening  damps  begin  to  fall. 

Evening  shadows  are  displayed. 

Round  me,  o’er  me,  everywhere. 

All  the  sky  is  grand  with  clouds. 

And  athwart  the  evening  air  . 

Wheel  the  swallows  home  in  crowds. 
Shafts  of  sunshine  from  the  west 
Paint  the  dusky  windows  red ; 

Darker  shadows,  deeper  rest. 
Underneath  and  overhead. 

Darker,  darker,  and  more  wan. 

In  my  breast  the  shadows  fall ; 

Upward  steals  the  life  of  man. 

As  the  sunshine  from  the  wall. 

From  the  wall  into  the  sky, 

F rom  the  roof  along  the  spire  ; 

Ah,  the  souls  of  those  that  die 
Are  but  sunbeams  lifted  higher. 
(Enter  Prince  Henry.) 

Prince  Henry.  Christ  is  arisen  ! 

A bbot.  _ Amen  ! he  is  arisen  ! 

His  peace  be  with  you  ! 

Prince  Henry.  Here  it  reigns  for- 
ever ! 

The  peace  of  God,  that  passeth  under- 
standing. 

Reigns  in  these  cloisters  and  these 
corridors. 

Are  you  Emestus,  Abbot  of  the  con- 
vent? 

Abbot.  I am. 

Prince  Henry.  And  I Prince  Hen- 
ry of  Hoheneck, 

Who  crave  your  hospitality  to-night. 
Abbot.  You  are  thrice  welcome  to 
our  humble  walls. 

You  do  us  honor ; and  we  shall  requite 
it, 

I fear,  but  poorly,  entertaining  you 
With  Paschal  eggs,  and  our  poor  con- 
vent wine. 

The  remnants  of  our  Easter  holidays. 


I 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Prince  Henry.  How  fares  it  with 
the  holy  monks  of  Hirschau? 
Are  all  things  well  with  them  ? 

A bbot.  All  things  are  well. 

Prince  Henry.  A noble  convent ! I 
have  known  it  long 

By  the  report  of  travellers.  I now  see 
Their  commendations  lag  behind  the 
truth. 

You  lie  here  in  the  valley  of  the  Nagold 
As  in  a nest : and  the  still  river,  gliding 
Along  its  bed,  is  like  an  admonition 
How  all  things  pass.  Your  lands  are 
rich  and  ample. 

And  your  revenues  large.  God’s  bene- 
diction 

Rests  on  your  convent. 

Abbot.  _ _ By  our  charities 

We  strive  to  merit  it.  Our  Lord  and 
Master, 

When  he  departed,  left  us  in  his  will. 
As  our  best  legacy  on  earth,  the  poor  ! 
These  we  have  always  with  us  ; had 
we  not. 

Our  hearts  would  grow  as  hard  as  are 
these  stones. 

Prince  Henry.  If  I remember  right, 
the  Counts  of  Calva 
Founded  your  convent. 

A bbot.  Even  as  you  say. 

Prmce  Henry.  And,  if  I err  not,  it 
is  very  old. 

A bbot.  Within  these  cloisters  lie  al- 
ready buried 

Twelve  holy  Abbots.  Underneath  the 
flags 

On  which  we  stand,  the  Abbot  William 
lies, 

Of  blessed  memory. 

Prince  Henry.  And  whose  tomb  is 
- that. 

Which  bears  the  brass  escutcheon  ? 

Abbot.  A benefactor’s, 

Conrad,  a Count  of  Calva,  he  who  stood 
Godfather  to  our  bells. 

Prince  Henry.  Your  monks  are 
learned 

And  holy  men,  I trust. 

A bbot.  There  are  among  them 

Learned  and  holy  men.  Yet  in  this  age 
We  need  another  Hildebrand,  to  shake 
And  purify  us  like  a mighty  wind. 

The  world  is  wicked,  and  sometimes  I 
wonder 


103 

God  does  not  lose  his  patience  witli  it 
wholly. 

And  shatter  it  like  glass  ! Even  here, 
at  times. 

Within  these  walls,  where  all  should 
be  at  peace, 

I have  my  trials.  Time  has  laid  his 
hand 

Upon  my  heart,  gently,  not  smiting  it. 
But  as  a harper  lays  his  open  palm 
Upon  his  harp,  to  deaden  its  vibrations. 
Ashes  are  on  my  head,  and  on  my  lips 
Sackcloth,  and  in  my  breast  a heaviness 
And  weariness  of  life,  that  makes  me 
ready 

To  say  to  the  dead  Abbots  under  us, 

“ Make  room  for  me  ! ” Only  I see 
the  dusk 

Of  evening  twilight  coming,  and  have 
not 

Completed  half  my  task  ; and  so  at 
times 

The  thought  of  my  shortcomings  in  this 
life 

Falls  like  a shadow  on  the  life  to  come. 
Prince  Henry.  W e must  all  die,  and 
not  the  old  alone  ; 

The  young  have  no  exemption  from 
that  doom. 

A bbot.  Ah,  yes  ! the  young  may  die, 
but  the  old  must ! 

That  is  the  difference. 

Prince  Henry.  I have  heard  much 
laud 

Of  your  transcribers.  Your  Scriptorium 
Is  famous  among  all ; your  manuscripts 
Praised  for  their  beauty  and  their  ex- 
cellence. 

Abbot.  That  is  indeed  our  boast. 
If  you  desire  it. 

You  shall  behold  these  treasures.  And 
meanwhile 

Shall  the  Refectorarius  bestow 
Your  horses  and  attendants  for  the 
night. 

{^They  go  in.  The  Vesper-bell  rings.') 
The  Chapel.  Vespers;  after  which 
the  monks  retire,  a chorister  lead- 
ing an  old  monk  who  is  blind. 
Prince  Henry.  They  are  all  gone, 
save  one  who  lingers. 

Absorbed  in  deep  and  silent  prayer. 

As  if  his  heart  could  find  no  rest. 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


104 

At  times  he  beats  his  heaving  breast 
With  clenched  and  convulsive  fingers, 
Then  lifts  them  trembling  in  the  air. 

A chorister,  with  golden  hair, 

Guides  hitherward  his  heavy  pace. 

Can  it  be  so  ? Or  does  my  sight 
Deceive  me  in  the  uncertain  light  ? 

Ah  no  ! I recognize  that  face. 

Though  Time  has  touched  it  in  his 
flight, 

And  changed  the  auburn  hair  to  white. 
It  is  Count  Hugo  of  the  Rhine, 

The  deadliest  foe  of  all  our  race. 

And  hateful  unto  me  and  mine  ! 

The  Blind  Monk.  Who  is  it  that 
doth  stand  so  near 
His  whispered  words  I almost  hear? 
Prince  Henry.  I am  Prince  Henry 
of  Hoheneck, 

And  you.  Count  Hugo  of  the  Rhine  ! 

I know  you,  and  I see  the  scar. 

The  brand  upon  your  forehead,  shine 
And  redden  l.ke  a baleful  star ! 

The  Blind  Monk.  Count  Hugo  once, 
but  now  the  wreck 
Of  what  I was.  O Hoheneck  ! 

The  passionate  will,  the  pride,  the  wrath 
That  bore  me  headlong  on  my  path. 
Stumbled  and  staggered  into  fear. 

And  failed  me  in  my  mad  career. 

As  a tired  steed  some  evil-doer. 

Alone  upon  a desolate  moor. 
Bewildered,  lost,  deserted,  blind. 

And  hearing  loud  and  close  behind 
The  o’ertaking  steps  of  his  pursuer. 
Then  suddenly  from  the  dark  there 
came 

A voice  that  called  me  by  my  name. 
And  said  to  me,  “ Kneel  down  and 
pray ! ” 

And  so  my  terror  passed  away. 

Passed  utterly  away  forever. 

Contrition,  penitence,  remorse, 

Came  on  me,  with  o’erwhelming  force  ; 
A hope,  a longing,  an  endeavor. 

By  days  of  penance  and  nights  of  prayer. 
To  frustrate  and  defeat  despair  ! 

Calm,  deep,  and  still  is  now  my  heart. 
With  tranquil  waters  overflowed  ; 

A lake  whose  unseen  fountains  start. 
Where  once  the  hot  volcano  glowed. 
And  you,  O Prince  of  Hoheneck  ! 
Have  known  me  in  that  earlier  time, 

A man  of  violence  and  crime. 


Whose  passions  brooked  no  curb  nor 
check. 

Behold  me  now,  in  gentler  mood. 

One  of  this  holy  brotherhood. 

Give  me  your  hand  ; here  let  me  kneel ; 
Make  your  reproaches  sharp  as  steel ; 
Spurn  me,  and  smite  me  on  each  cheek  ; 
No  violence  can  harm  the  meek. 

There  is  no  wound  Christ  cannot  heal ! 
Yes  ; lift  your  princely  hand,  and  take 
Revenge,  if ’t  is  revenge  you  seek  ; 
Then  pardon  me,  for  Jesus’  sake  ! 
Prince  Henry.  Arise,  Count  Hugo  ! 
let  there  be 

No  further  strife  nor  enmity 
Between  us  twain  ; we  both  have  erred  ! 
Too  rash  in  act,  too  wroth  in  word. 
From  the  beginning  have  we  stood 
In  fierce,  defiant  attitude. 

Each  thoughtless  of  the  others  right. 
And  each  reliant  on  his  might. 

But  now  our  souls  are  more  subdued  ; 
The  hand  of  God,  and  not  in  vain. 

Has  touched  us  with  the  fire  of  pain. 
Let  us  kneel  down,  and  side  by  side 
Pray,  till  our  souls  are  purified. 

And  pardon  will  not  be  denied  1 
{They  kneel.~) 

The  Refectory.  Gaudiolum  of  Monks 
at  midnight.  'L.MZiv'E.Yi  disguised  as 
a Friar. 

Friar  Paul  {sings). 

Ave  ! color  vini  clari, 

Dulcis  potus,  non  amari, 

Tua  nos  inebriari 
Digneris  potentia  ! 

Friar  Cuthbert.  Not  so  much  noise, 
my  worthy  freres. 

You  ’ll  disturb  the  Abbot  at  his  prayers. 
Friar  Paul  {sings). 

O ! quam  placens  in  colore  ! 

O ! quam  fragrans  in  odore  ! 

O ! quam  sapidum  in  ore  ! 

Duke  linguae  vinculum  ! 

Friar  Cuthbert.  I should  think  your 
tongue  had  broken  its  chain  ! 

Friar  Paid  {sings). 

Felix  venter  quern  intrabis  ! 

Felix  guttur  quod  rigabis  1 
Felix  os  quod  tu  lavabis  1 
Et  beata  labia  1 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Friar  Cuthhert.  Peace  ! I say,  peace  ! 

Will  you  never  cease  ! 

You  will  rouse  up  the  Abbot,  I tell 
you  again  ! 

Friar  John.  No  danger ! to-night 
he  will  let  us  alone. 

As  I happen  to  know  he  has  guests  of 
his  own. 

Friar  Cuthbe'rt.  Who  are  they  ? 

Friar  Joh?t.  A German  Prince  and 
his  train. 

Who  arrived  here  just  before  the  rain. 

There  is  with  him  a damsel  fair  to  see. 

As  slender  and  graceful  as  a reed  ! 

When  she  alighted  from  her  steed. 

It  seemed  like  a blossom  blown  from  a 
tree. 

Friar  Ctithbert.  None  of  your  pale- 
faced  girls  for  me  ! 

None  of  your  damsels  of  high  degree  ! 

Friar  John.  Come,  old  fellow,  drink 
down  to  your  peg  ! 

But  do  not  drink  any  farther,  I beg  ! 
Friar  Paul  {sings). 

In  the  days  of  gold, 

The  days  of  old. 

Crosier  of  wood 
And  bishop  of  gold  ! 

Friar  Cuthbert.  What  an  infernal 
racket  and  riot  ! 

Can  you  not  drink  your  wine  in  quiet  ? 

Why  fill  the  convent  with  such  scan- 
dals. 

As  if  we  were  so  many  drunken  Van- 
dals? 

Friar  Paul  {continues). 

Now  w'e  have  changed 
That  law  so  good. 

To  crosier  of  gold 
And  bishop  of  wood  ! 

Friar  Cuthbert.  Well,  then,  since 
you  are  in  the  mood 

To  give  your  noisy  humors  vent, 

Sing  and  howl  to  your  heart’s  content ! 

Chorus  of  Monks. 

Funde  vinum,  funde ! 
Tanquam  sint  fluminis  undae, 
Nec  quasras  unde, 

Sed  fundas  semper  abunde  ! 

Friar  John.  What  is  the  name  of 
yonder  friar, 


105 

With  an  eye  that  glows  like  a coal  of 
fire. 

And  such  a black  mass  of  tangled 
hair? 

Friar  Paul.  He  who  is  sitting  there. 
With  a rollicking. 

Devil  may  care. 

Free-and-easy  look  and  air. 

As  if  he  were  used  to  such  feasting  and 
frolicking  ? 

Friar  John.  The  same. 

Friar  Paul.  He ’s  a stranger.  You 
had  better  ask  his  name, 

And  where  he  is  going,  and  w hence  he 
came. 

Friar  John.  Hallo  ! Sir  Friar  ! 

Friar  Paul.  You  must  raise  your 
voice  a little  higher. 

He  does  not  seem  to  hear  what  you 
say. 

Now,  try  again  ! He  is  looking  this 
way. 

Friar  John.  Hallo!  Sir  Friar, 

We  wish  to  inquire 

Whence  vou  came,  and  where  you  are 
going. 

And  anything  else  that  is  worth  the 
knowing. 

So  be  so  good  as  to  open  your  head. 

Lucifer.  I am  a Frenchman  bom 
and  bred. 

Going  on  a pilgrimage  to  Rome. 

My  home 

Is  the  convent  of  St.  Gildas  de  Rhuys, 
Of  which,  very  like,  you  never  have 
heard. 

Monks.  Never  a word  ! 

Lticifer.  You  must  know,  then,  it  is 
in  the  diocese 

Called  the  Diocese  of  Vannes, 

In  the  province  of  Brittany. 

From  the  gray  rocks  of  Morbihan 
It  overlooks  the  angry  sea; 

The  very  sea-shore  where. 

In  his  great  despair. 

Abbot  Abelard  walked  to  and  fro. 
Filling  the  night  with  woe. 

And  wailing  aloud  to  the  merciless  seas 
The  name  of  his  sweet  Heloise  I 
Whilst  overhead 

The  convent  windows  gleamed  as  red 
As  the  fiery  eyes  of  the  monks  within. 
Who  with  jovial  din 
Gave  themselves  up  to  all  kinds  of  sin  J 


[o6 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Ha!  that  is  a convent ! that  is  an  abbey ! 
Over  the  doors, 

None  of  your  death-heads  carved  in 
wood, 

None  of  your  Saints  looking  pious  and 
good, 

None  of  your  Patriarchs  old  and  shabby  I 
But  the  heads  and  tusks  of  boars, 

And  the  cells 

Hung  all  round  with  the  fells 
Of  the  fallow-deer. 

And  then  what  cheer  ! 

What  jolly,  fat  friars, 

Sitting  round  the  great,  roaring  fires, 
Roaring  louder  than  they. 

With  their  strong  wines. 

And  their  concubines, 

And  never  a bell. 

With  its  swagger  and  swell, 

Calling  you  up  with  a start  of  affright 
In  the  dead  of  night. 

To  send  you  grumbling  down  dark  stairs. 
To  mumble  your  prayers. 

But  the  cheery  crov/ 

Of  cocks  in  the  yard  below. 

After  daybreak,  an  hour  or  so. 

And  the  barking  of  deep-mouthed 
hounds. 

These  are  the  sounds 
That,  instead  of  bells,  salute  the  ear. 
And  then  all  day 
Up  and  away 

Through  the  forest,  hunting  the  deer  1 
Ah,  my  friends  ! I ’m  afraid  that  here 
You  are  a little  too  pious,  a little  too 
tame. 

And  the  more  is  the  shame. 

’T  is  the  greatest  folly 
Not  to  be  jolly  ; 

That ’s  what  I think  ! 

Come,  drink,  drink. 

Drink,  and  die  game  ! 

Monks.  Andyour  Abbot  What ’s-his- 
name? 

Lucifer.  Abelard  ! 

Monks.  Did  he  drink  hard  ? 

Lucifer.  O no  ! Not  he  ! 

He  was  a dry  old  fellow. 

Without  juice  enough  to  get  thoroughly 
mellow. 

There  he  stood. 

Lowering  at  us  in  sullen  mood. 

As  if  he  had  come  into  Brittany 
J ust  to  reform  our  brotherhood  ! 


(A  roar  of  laughter.') 

But  you  see 

It  never  would  do  1 

For  some  of  us  knew  a thing  or  two. 

In  the  Abbey  of  St.  Gildas  de  Rhuys  1 
For  instance,  the  great  ado 
With  old  Fulbert’s  niece, 

The  young  and  lovely  Heloise. 

Friar  John.  Stop  there,  if  you 
please. 

Till  we  drink  to  the  fair  Heloise. 

All  (drinking  and  shouting).  He- 
loise ! Heloise  I 
(The  Chapel-bell  tolls.) 

Lucifer  (starting).  What  is  that  bell 
for?  Are  you  such  asses 
As  to  keep  up  the  fashion  of  midnight 
masses? 

Friar  Czithbert.  It  is  only  a poor, 
unfortunate  brother, 

Who  is  gifted  with  most  miraculous 
powers 

Of  getting  up  at  all  sorts  of  hours. 

And,  by  way  of  penance  and  Christian 
meekness. 

Of  creeping  silently  out  of  his  cell 
To  take  a pull  at  that  hideous  bell  ; 

So  that  all  the  monks  who  are  lying 
awake 

May  murmur  some  kind  of  prayer  for 
his  sake. 

And  adapted  to  his  peculiar  weakness ! 
Friar  John.  F rom  frailty  and  fall  — 
All.  Good  Lord,  deliver  us  all  ! 
Friar  Cuthbert.  And  before  the  bell 
for  matins  sounds, 

He  takes  his  lantern,  and  goes  the 
rounds. 

Flashing  it  into  our  sleepy  eyes. 

Merely  to  say  it  is  time  to  arise. 

But  enough  of that.  Goon,  if  you  please. 
With  your  story  about  St.  Gildas  de 
Rhuys. 

Lucifer.  Well,  it  finally  came  to  pass 
That,  half  in  fun  and  half  in  malice. 
One  Sunday  at  Mass 
We  put  some  poison  into  the  chalice. 
But,  either  by  accident  or  design, 

Peter  Abelard  kept  away 
From  the  chapel  that  day. 

And  a poor,  young  friar,  who  in  his  stead 
Drank  the  sacramental  wine. 

Fell  on  the  steps  of  the  altar,  dead ! 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


B ut  look  ! do  you  see  at  the  window  there 
That  face,  with  a look  of  grief  and  de- 
spair. 

That  ghastly  face,  as  of  one  in  pain  ? 
Monks.  Who?  where? 

Lucifer.  As  I spoke,  it  vanished 
away  again. 

Friar  Cuthbert.  It  is  that  nefarious 
Siebald  the  Refectorarius. 

That  fellow  is  always  playing  the  scout. 
Creeping  and  peeping  and  prowling 
about ; 

And  then  he  regales 
The  Abbot  with  scandalous  tales. 
Lucifer.  A spy  in  the  convent? 
One  of  the  brothers 

Telling  scandalous  tales  of  the  others  ? 
Out  upon  him,  the  lazy  loon  ! 

I would  put  a stop  to  that  pretty  soon, 
In  a way  he  should  rue  it. 

Monks.  How  shall  we  do  it  ? 
Lucifer.  Do  you,  brother  Paul, 
Creep  under  the  window,  close  to  the 
wall. 

And  open  it  suddenly  when  I call. 
Then  seize  the  villain  by  the  hair, 

And  hold  him  there. 

And  punish  him  soundly,  once  for  all. 
Friar  Cuthbert.  As  St.  Dunstan  of 
old. 

We  are  told. 

Once  caught  the  Devil  by  the  nose  ! 
Lucifer.  Ha  ! ha  ! that  story  is  very 
clever. 

But  has  no  foundation  whatsoever. 
Quick  ! for  I see  his  face  again 
Glaring  in  at  the  window-pane  ; 

N ow  ! now  ! and  do  not  spare  your  blows. 
(Friar  Paul  opetis  the  window  sud- 
denly, and  seizes  Siebald.  They 
beat  him.) 

Friar  Siebald.  Help  ! help  ! are  you 
going  to  slay  me  ? 

Friar  Paul.  That  will  teach  you 
again  to  betray  me  ! 

Friar  Siebald.  Mercy ! mercy  ! 
Friar  Paul  {shouting  and  beating). 
Rumpas  bellorum  lorum, 

Vim  confer  amorum 
Morum  verorum  rorum 
Tu  plena  polorum  ! 

Lttcifer.  Who  stands  in  the  doorway 
yonder. 


107 

Stretching  out  his  trembling  hand. 

Just  as  Abelard  used  to  stand. 

The  flash  of  his  keen,  black  eyes 
Forerunning  the  thunder? 

The  Monks  {in  confusion).  The 
Abbot ! the  Abbot  ! 

Friar  Cuthbert.  And  what  is  the 
wonder ! 

He  seems  to  have  taken  you  by  surprise. 
Friar  Francis.  Hide  the  great 
flagon 

From  the  eyes  of  the  dragon  ! 

Friar  C%ithbert.  Pull  the  brown 
hood  over  your  face  ! 

This  will  bring  us  into  disgrace  I 
Abbot.  What  means  this  revel  and 
carouse  ? 

Is  this  a tavern  and  drinking-house  ? 
Are  you  Christian  monks,  or  heathen 
devils, 

T o pollute  this  convent  with  your  revels  ? 
Were  Peter  Damian  still  upon  earth. 
To  be  shocked  by  such  ungodly  mirth. 
He  would  write  your  names,  with  pen 
of  gall. 

In  his  Book  of  Gomorrah,  one  and  all ! 
Away,  you  drunkards  ! to  your  cells. 
And  pray  till  you  hear  the  matin-bells  ; 
You,  Brother  Francis,  and  you,  Brother 
Paul  ! 

And  as  a penance  mark  each  prayer 
With  the  scourge  upon  your  shoulders 
_ bare  ; 

Nothing  atones  for  such  a sin 
But  the  blood  that  follows  the  discipline. 
And  you.  Brother  Cuthbert,  come  with 
me 

Alone  into  the  sacristy  ; 

You,  who  should  be  a guide  to  your 
brothers. 

And  are  ten  times  worse  than  all  the 
others. 

For  you  I’ve  a draught  that  has  long 
been  brewing. 

You  shall  do  a penance  worth  the  doing  ! 
Away  to  your  prayers,  then,  one  and  all ! 
I wonder  the  very  convent  wall 
Does  not  crumble  and  crush  you  in  its  fall ! 

The  neighboring  Nunnery.  The  Ab- 
bess Irmingard  sitting  with  Elsie 
in  the  moonlight. 

Irmingard.  The  night  is  silent,  the 
wind  is  still, 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


io8 


The  moon  Is  looking  from  yonder  hill 
Down  upon  convent,  and  grove,  and 
garden  ; 

The  clouds  have  passed  away  from  her 
face, 

Leaving  behind  them  no  sorrowful  trace, 
Only  the  tender  and  quiet  grace 
Of  one,  whose  heart  has  been  healed 
with  pardon  ! 

And  such  am  I.  My  soul  within 
Was  dark  with  passion  and  soiled  with 
sin. 

But  now  its  wounds  are  healed  again  ; 
Gone  are  the  anguish,  the  terror,  and 
pain ; 

For  across  that  desolate  land  of  woe. 
O’er  whose  burning  sands  I was  forced 
to  go, 

A wind  from  heaven  began  to  blow  ; 
And  all  my  being  trembled  and  shook. 
As  the  leaves  of  the  tree,  or  the  grass  of 
the  field. 

And  I was  healed,  as  the  sick  are  healed. 
When  fanned  by  the  leaves  of  the  Holy 
Book  ! 

As  thou  sittest  In  the  moonlight  there. 
Its  glory  flooding  thy  golden  hair, 

And  the  only  darkness  that  which  lies 
In  the  haunted  chambers  of  thine  eyes, 
I feel  my  soul  drawn  unto  thee. 
Strangely,  and  strongly,  and  more  and 
more, 

Asto  one  I haveknown  and  lovedbefore ; 

For  every  soul  is  akin  to  me 

That  dwells  in  the  land  of  mystery  ! 

I am  the  Lady  Irmingard, 

Born  of  a noble  race  and  name  ! 

Many  a wandering  Suabian  bard. 
Whose  life  was  dreary,  and  bleak,  and 
hard. 

Has  found  through  me  the  way  to  fame. 
Brief  and  bright  were  those  days,  and 
the  night 

Which  followed  was  full  of  a lurid  light. 
Love,  that  of  every  woman's  heart 
Will  have  the  whole,  and  not  a part, 
That  is  to  her,  in  Nature’s  plan. 

More  than  ambition  is  to  man. 

Her  light,  her  life,  her  very  breath. 
With  no  alternative  but.  death. 

Found  me  a maiden  soft  and  young. 
Just  from  the  convent’s  cloistered 
school. 


And  seated  on  my  lowly  stool, 
Attentive  while  the  minstrels  sung. 
Gallant,  graceful,  gentle,  tall, 

Fairest,  noblest,  best  of  all. 

Was  Walter  of  the  Vogelweid  ; 

And,  whatsoever  may  betide. 

Still  I think  of  him  with  pride  ! 

His  song  was  of  the  summer-time, 

The  very  birds  sang  in  his  rhyme  ; 

The  sunshine,  the  delicious  air. 

The  fragrance  of  the  flowers,  were 
there ; 

And  I grew  restless  as  I heard. 
Restless  and  buoyant  as  a bird, 

Down  soft,  aerial  currents  sailing. 

O’er  blossomed  orchards,  and  fields  in 
bloom. 

And  through  the  momentary  gloom 
Of  shadows  o’er  the  landscape  trailing, 
"yielding  and  borne  I knew  not  where, 
But  feeling  resistance  unavailing. 

And  thus,  unnoticed  and  apart. 

And  more  by  accident  than  choice, 

I listened  to  that  single  voice 
Until  the  chambers  of  my  heart 
Were  filled  with  it  by  night  and  day. 
One  night,  — it  was  a night  in  May,  — 
Within  the  garden,  unawares. 

Under  the  blossoms  in  the  gloom, 

I heard  it  utter  my  own  name 
With  protestations  and  wild  prayers  ; 
And  it  rang  through  me,  and  became 
Like  the  archangel’s  trump  of  doom. 
Which  the  soul  hears,  and  must  obey  ; 
And  mine  arose  as  from  a tomb. 

My  former  life  now  seemed  to  me 
Such  as  hereafter  death  may  be. 

When  in  the  great  Eternity 
We  shall  awake  and  find  it  day. 

It  was  a dream,  and  would  not  stay ; 

A dream,  that  in  a single  night 
Faded  and  vanished  out  of  sight. 

My  father’s  anger  followed  fast 
This  passion,  as  a freshening  blast 
Seeks  out  and  fans  the  fire,  whose  rage 
It  may  increase,  but  not  assuage. 

And  he  exclaimed : “ No  wandering  bard 
Shall  win  thy  hand,  O Irmingard  ! 

For  which  Prince  Henry  of  Hoheneck 
By  messenger  and  letter  sues.” 

Gently,  but  firmly,  I replied  : 

“ Henry  of  Hoheneck  I discard  1 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Never  the  hand  of  Irmingard 

Shall  lie  in  his  as  the  hand  of  a bride  ! ” 

This  said  I,  Walter,  for  thy  sake  ; 

This  said  I,  for  I could  not  choose. 
After  a pause,  my  father  spake 
In  that  cold  and  deliberate  tone 
Which  turns  the  hearer  into  stone, 

And  seems  itself  the  act  to  be 
That  follows  with  such  dread  certainty  ; 
“ This,  or  the  cloister  and  the  veil  ! ” 
No  other  words  than  these  he  said. 

But  they  were  like  a funeral  wail  ; 

My  life  was  ended,  my  heart  was  dead. 
That  night  from  the  castle-gate  went 
down. 

With  silent,  slow,  and  stealthy  pace. 
Two  shadows,  mounted  on  shadowy 
steeds. 

Taking  the  narrow  path  that  leads 
Into  the  forest  dense  and  brown. 

In  the  leafy  darkness  of  the  place. 

One  could  not  distinguish  form  nor  face. 
Only  a bulk  without  a shape, 

A darker  shadow  in  the  shade  ; 

One  scarce  could  say  it  moved  or  stayed. 
Thus  it  was  we  made  our  escape  ! 

A foaming  brook,  with  many  a bound. 
Followed  us  like  a playful  hound  ; 
Then  leaped  before  us,  and  in  the  hol- 
low 

Paused,  and  waited  for  us  to  follow. 
And  seemed  impatient,  and  afraid 
That  our  tardy  flight  should  be  betrayed 
By  the  sound  our  horses’  hoof-beats 
made. 

And  when  we  reached  the  plain  below. 
We  paused  a moment  and  drew  rein 
To  look  back  at  the  castle  again  ; 

And  we  saw  the  windows  all  aglow 
With  lights,  that  were  passing  to  and  fro ; 
Our  hearts  with  terror  ceased  to  beat ; 
The  brook  crept  silent  to  our  feet ; 

We  knew  what  most  we  feared  to  know. 
Then  suddenly  horns  began  to  blow  ; 
And  we  heard  a shout,  and  a heavy 
tramp. 

And  our  horses  snorted  in  the  damp 
Night-air  of  the  meadows  green  and 
wide. 

And  in  a moment,  side  by  side, 

So  close,  they  must  have  seemed  but 
one. 

The  shadows  across  the  moonlight  run. 
And  another  came,  and  swept  behind. 


Like  the  shadow  of  clouds  before  the 
wind  ! 

How  I remember  that  breathless  flight 
Across  the  moors,  in  the  summer  night ! 
How  underour  feet  the  long,  white  road 
Backward  like  a river  flowed. 

Sweeping  with  it  fences  and  hedges. 
Whilst  farther  away,  and  overhead. 
Paler  than  I,  with  fear  and  dread. 

The  moon  fled  with  us,  as  we  fled 
Along  the  forest’s  jagged  edges  ! 

All  this  I can  remember  well ; 

But  of  what  afterwards  befell 
I nothing  further  can  recall 
Then  a blind,  desperate,  headlong  fall ; 
The  rest  is  a blank  and  darkness  all. 
When  I awoke  out  of  this  swoon. 

The  sun  was  shining,  not  the  moon. 
Making  a cross  upon  the  wall 
With  the  bars  of  my  windows  narrow 
and  tall ; 

And  I prayed  to  it,  as  I had  been  wont 
to  pray, 

F rom  early  childhood,  day  by  day. 
Each  morning,  as  in  bed  I lay  ! 

I was  lying  again  in  my  own  room  ! 
And  I thanked  God,  inmy  fever  and  pain. 
That  those  shadows  on  the  midnight 
plain 

Were  gone,  and  could  not  come  again  I 
I struggled  no  longer  with  my  doom  1 
This  happened  many  years  ago. 

I left  my  father’s  home  to  come 
Like  Catherine  to  her  martyrdom. 

For  blindly  I esteemed  it  so. 

And  when  I heard  the  convent  door 
Behind  me  close,  to  ope  no  more, 

I felt  it  smite  me  like  a blow. 

Through  all  my  limbs  a shudder  ran, 
And  on  my  bruised  spirit  fell 
The  dampness  of  my  narrow  cell 
As  night-air  on  a wounded  man. 

Giving  intolerable  pain. 

But  now  a better  life  began. 

I felt  the  agony  decrease 

By  slow  degrees,  then  wholly  cease. 

Ending  in  perfect  rest  and  peace  ! 

It  was  not  apathy,  nor  dulness. 

That  weighed  and  pressed  upon  my 
brain. 

But  the  same  passion  I had  given 
To  earth  before,  now  turned  to  heaven 
With  all  its  overflowing  fulness. 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


no 

Alas  I the  world  is  full  of  peril ! 

The  path  that  runs  through  the  fairest 
meads, 

On  the  sunniest  side  of  the  valley,  leads 
Into  a region  bleak  and  sterile ! 

Alike  in  the  high-born  and  the  lowly, 
The  will  is  feeble,  and  passion  strong. 
We  cannot  sever  right  from  wrong  ; 
Some  falsehood  mingles  with  all  truth  ; 
N or  is  it  strange  the  heart  of  youth 
Should  waver  and  comprehend  but 
slowly 

The  things  that  are  holy  and  unholy  ! 
But  in  this  sacred,  calm  retreat, 

We  are  all  well  and  safely  shielded 
F rom  winds  that  blow,  and  waves  that 
beat. 

From  the  cold,  and  rain,  and  blighting 
heat, 

To  which  the  strongest  hearts  have 
yielded. 

Here  we  stand  as  the  Virgins  Seven, 
For  our  celestial  bridegroom  yearning; 
Our  hearts  are  lamps  forever  burning. 
With  a steady  and  unwavering  flame, 
Pointing  upward,  forever  the  same. 
Steadily  upward  toward  the  heaven  ! 

The  moon  is  hidden  behind  a cloud  ; 

A sudden  darkness  fills  the  room, 

And  thy  deep  eyes,  amid  the  gloom. 
Shine  like  jewels  in  a shroud. 

On  the  leaves  is  a sound  of  falling  rain  ; 
A bird,  awakened  in  its  nest. 

Gives  a faint  twitter  of  unrest. 

Then  smooths  its  plumes  and  sleeps 
again. 

No  other  sounds  than  these  I hear ; 
The  hour  of  midnight  must  be  near. 
Thou  art  o’erspent  with  the  day’s  fatigue 
Of  riding  many  a dusty  league  ; 

Sink,  then,  gently  to  thy  slumber  ; 

Me  so  many  cares  encumber. 

So  many  ghosts,  and  forms  of  fright. 
Have  started  from  their  graves  to-night, 
They  have  driven  sleep  from  mine  eyes 
away  : 

I will  go  down  to  the  chapel  and  pray. 
V. 

A covered  bridge  at  Lucerne. 

Prince  Henry.  God’s  blessing  on  the 
architects  who  build 


The  bridges  o’er  swift  rivers  and  abysses 
Before  impassable  to  human  feet. 

No  less  than  on  the  builders  of  cathe- 
drals. 

Whose  massive  walls  are  bridges  thrown 
across 

The  dark  and  terrible  abyss  of  Death. 
Well  has  the  name  of  Pontifex  been 
given 

Unto  the  Church’s  head,  as  the  chief 
builder 

And  architect  of  the  invisible  bridge 
That  leads  from  earth  to  heaven. 

Elsie.  How  dark  it  grows  f 

What  are  these  paintings  on  the  walls 
around  us  ? 

Prince  Henry.  The  Dance  Macaber ! 

Elsie.  What? 

Prince  Henry.  The  Dance  of  Death  ! 
All  that  go  to  and  fro  must  look  upon  it. 
Mindful  of  what  they  shall  be,  while 
beneath. 

Among  the  wooden  piles,  the  turbulent 
river 

Rushes,  impetuous  as  the  river  of  life. 
With  dimpling  eddies,  ever  green  and 
bright. 

Save  w'here  the  shadow  of  this  bridge 
falls  on  it. 

Elsie.  O yes  ! I see  it  now  ! 

Prince  Henry.  The  'grim  musician 
Leads  all  men  through  the  mazes  of  that 
dance. 

To  different  sounds  in  different  meas- 
ures moving ; 

Sometimes  he  plays  a lute,  sometimes 
a drum. 

To  tempt  or  terrify. 

Elsie.  What  is  this  picture  ? 

Prince  Henry.  It  is  a young  man 
singing  to  a nun. 

Who  kneels  at  her  devotions,  but  in 
kneeling 

Turns  round  to  look  at  him ; and 
Death,  meanwhile. 

Is  putting  out  the  candles  on  the  altar ! 

Elsie.  Ah,  what  a pity ’t  is  that  she 
should  listen 

Unto  such  songs,  when  in  her  orisons 
She  might  have  heard  in  heaven  the 
angels  singing ! 

Prince  Henry.  Here  he  has  stolen 
a jester’s  cap  and  bells, 

And  dances  with  the  Queen. 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Elsie.  A foolish  jest ! 

Prince  Henry.  And  here  the  heart 
of  the  new-wedded  wife, 

Coming  from  church  with  her  beloved 
lord, 

He  startles  with  the  rattle  of  his  drum. 

Elsie.  Ah,  that  is  sad ! And  yet 
perhaps  ’tis  best 

That  she  should  die,  with  all  the  sun- 
shine on  her. 

And  all  the  benedictions  of  the  morn- 
ingj 

Before  this  affluence  of  golden  light 
Shall  fade  into  a cold  and  clouded  gray, 
Then  into  darkness  ! 

Prince  Henry.  Under  it  is  written, 
“ Nothing  but  death  shall  separate  thee 
and  me  ! ” 

Elsie.  And  what  is  this,  that  follows 
close  upon  it  ? 

Prince  Henry.  Death,  playing  on  a 
dulcimer.  Behind  him, 

A poor  old  woman,  with  a rosary, 

F ollows  the  sound,  and  seems  to  wish 
her  feet 

Were  swifter  to  o’ertake  him.  Under- 
neath, 

The  inscription  reads,  “ Better  is  Death 
than  Life.” 

Elsie.  Better  is  Death  than  Life ! 
Ah  yes  ! to  thousands 
Death  plays  upon  a dulcimer,  and  sings 
That  song  of  consolation,  till  the  air 
Rings  with  it,  and  they  cannot  choose 
but  follow 

Whither  he  leads.  And  not  the  old 
alone. 

But  the  young  also  hear  it,  and  are  still. 

Prince  Henry.  Yes,  in  their  sadder 
moments.  ’T  is  the  sound 
Of  their  own  hearts  they  hear,  half  full 
of  tears. 

Which  are  like  crystal  cups,  half  filled 
with  water. 

Responding  to  the  pressure  of  a finger 
With  music  sweet  and  low  and  melan- 
choly. 

Let  us  go  forward,  and  no  longer  stay 
In  this  great  picture-gallery  of  Death  ! 
I hate  it ! ay,  the  very  thought  of  it  ! 

Elsie.  Why  is  it  hateful  to  you? 

Prince  Henry.  F or  the  reason 

That  life,  and  all  that  speaks  of  life,  is 
' lovely, 


And  death,  and  all  that  speaks  of  death, 
is  hateful. 

Elsie.  The  grave  itself  is  but  a cpv- 
ered  bridge. 

Leading  from  light  to  light,  through  a 
brief  darkness ! 

Prince  Henry  {emerging  from  ike 
bridge').  I breathe  again  more 
freely  ! Ah,  how  pleasant 
To  come  once  more  into  the  light  of 
day. 

Out  of  that  shadow  of  death  ! To  hear 
again 

The  hoof-beats  of  our  horses  on  firm 
ground. 

And  not  upon  those  hollow  planks,  re- 
soundi|i^ 

With  a sepulchral  echo,  like  the  clods  ‘ 
On  coffins  in  a churchyard  ! Yonder  lies 
The  Lake  of  the  Four  Forest-Towns, 
apparelled 

In  light,  and  lingering,  like  a village 
maiden. 

Hid  in  the  bosom  of  her  native  moun- 
tains. 

Then  pouring  all  her  life  into  another’s. 
Changing  her  name  and  being  ! Over- 
head, 

Shaking  his  cloudy  tresses  loose  in  air. 
Rises  Pilatus,  with  his  windy  pines. 

{T hey f ass  on.) 

The  Devil's  Bridge.  Prince  Henry 
attd  Elsie  crossing,  with  attetid- 
a?its. 

Guide.  This  bridge  is  called  the 
Devil’s  Bridge. 

With  a single  arch,  from  ridge  to  ridge. 

It  leaps  across  the  terrible  chasm 
Yawning  beneath  us,  black  and  deep. 

As  if,  in  some  convulsive  spasm. 

The  summits  of  the  hills  had  cracked. 
And  made  a road  for  the  cataract, 

That  raves  and  rages  down  the  steep  ! 
Lucifer  {under  the  bridge).  Ha  ! ha  ! 
Guide.  Never  any  bridge  but  this 
Could  stand  across  the  wild  abyss  ; 

All  the  rest,  of  wood  or  stone. 

By  the  Devil’s  hand  were  overthrown. 
He  toppled  crags  from  the  precipice. 
And  whatsoe’er  was  built  by  day 
In  the  night  was  swept  away  ; 

None  could  stand  but  this  alone. 
Lucifer{under the  bridge).  Ha!  hal 


II2 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Guide.  I showed  you  in  the  valley  a 
boulder 

Marked  with  the  imprint  of  his  shoul- 
der ; 

As  he  was  bearing  it  up  this  way, 

A peasant,  passing,  cried,  “ Herr  Je  ! ” 
And  the  Devil  dropped  it  in  his  fright, 
And  vanished  suddenly  out  of  sight  ! 

Lucifer  {under  the  bridge).  Ha!  ha  I 

Guide.  Abbot  Giraldus  of  Einsiedel, 
For  pilgrims  on  their  way  to  Rome, 
Built  this  at  last,  with  a single  arch. 
Under  which,  on  its  endless  march. 
Runs  the  river,  white  with  foam. 

Like  a thread  through  the  eye  of  a nee- 
dle. 

And  the  Devil  promised  to  let  it  stand. 
Under  compact  and  condition 
That  the  first  living  thing  which  crossed 
Should  be  surrendered  into  his  hand, 
And  be  beyond  redemption  lost. 

Lucifer{under  the  bridge).  Ha!  ha! 
perdition ! 

Guide.  At  length,  the  bridge  being 
all  completed. 

The  Abbot,  standing  at  its  head. 

Threw  across  it  a loaf  of  bread. 

Which  a hungry  dog  sprang  after. 

And  the  rocks  re-echoed  with  the  peals 
of  laughter 

To  see  the  Devil  thus  defeated  ! 

{They  pass  on.) 

Lucifer  {under  the  bridge).  Ha  ! 
ha  ! defeated  ! 

For  journeys  and  for  crimes  like  this 
I let  the  bridge  stand  o’er  the  abyss  ! 

The  St.  Gothard  Pass. 

Prince  Henry.  This  is  the  highest 
point.  Two  ways  the  rivers 
Leap  down  to  different  seas,  and  as  they 
roll 

Grow  deep  and  still,  and  their  majestic 
presence 

Becomes  a benefaction  to  the  towns 
They  visit,  wandering  silently  among 
them. 

Like  patriarchs  old  among  their  shining 
tents. 

Elsie.  How  bleak  and  bare  it  is ! 
Nothing  but  mosses 
Grow  on  these  rocks. 

Prince  Henry.  Yet  are  they  not  for- 
gotten ; 


Beneficent  Nature  sends  the  mists  to 
feed  them. 

Elsie.  See  yonder  little  cloud,  that, 
borne  aloft 

So  tenderly  by  tbe  wind,  floats  fast  away 
Over  tbe  snowy  peaks  ! 1 1 seems  to  me 

The  body  of  St.  Catherine,  borne  by 
angels  ! 

Prince  Henry.  Thou  art  St.  Cath- 
erine, and  invisible  angels 
Bear  thee  across  these  chasms  and 
precipices. 

Lest  thou  shouldst  dash  thy  feet  against 
a stone  ! 

Elsie.  Would  I were  borne  unto  my 
grave,  as  she  was. 

Upon  angelic  shoulders  ! Even  now 
I seem  uplifted  by  them,  light  as  air  ! 
What  sound  is  that? 

Prince  He^try.  The  tumbling  ava- 
lanches ! 

Elsie.  How  awful,  yet  how  beautiful ! 

Prince  Henry.  These  are 

The  voices  of  the  mountains  ! 'I'hus 
they  ope 

Their  snowy  lips,  and  speak  unto  each 
other. 

In  the  primeval  language,  lost  to  man. 

Elsie.  What  land  is  this  that  spreads 
itself  beneath  us? 

Prince  Henry.  Italy!  Italy! 

Elsie.  Land  of  the  Madonna  ! 

How  beautiful  it  is  ! It  seems  a garden 
Of  Paradise  ! 

Prince  Henry.  Nay,  of  Gethsemane 
To  thee  and  me,  of  passion  and  of 
prayer ! 

Yet  once  of  Paradise.  Long  years  ago 
I wandered  as  a youth  among  its  bowers. 
And  never  from  my  heart  has  faded  quite 
Its  memory,  that,  like  a summer  sunset. 
Encircles  with  a ring  of  purple  light 
All  the  horizon  of  my  youth.  _ ' 

Guide.  O friends ! 

The  days  are  short,  the  way  before  us 
long  ; 

We  must  not  linger,  if  we  think  to  reach 
The  inn  at  Belinzona  before  vespers  ! 

{They  pass  on.) 

A t the  foot  of  the  A Ips.  A halt  un- 
der the  trees  at  noon. 

Prince  Henry.  Here  let  us  pause  a 
moment  in  the  trembling 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Shadow  and  sunshine  of  the  roadside 
trees. 

And,  our  tired  horses  in  a group  as- 
sembling. 

Inhale  long  draughts  of  this  delicious 
breeze. 

Our  fleeter  steeds  have  distanced  our 
attendants ; 

They  lag  behind  us  with  a slower  pace  ; 

We  will  await  them  under  the  green 
pendants 

Of  the  great  willows  in  this  shady 
place. 

Ho,  Barbarossa ! how  thy  mottled 
haunches 

Sweat  with  this  canter  over  hill  and 
glade  ! 

Stand  still,  and  let  these  overhanging 
branches 

Fan  thy  hot  sides  and  comfort  thee 
with  shade  ! 

Elsie.  What  a delightful  landscape 
spreads  before  us. 

Marked  with  a whitewashed  cottage 
here  and  there  ! 

And,  in  luxuriant  garlands  drooping 
o’er  us. 

Blossoms  of  grape-vines  scent  the  sun- 
ny air. 

Prince  Henry.  Hark  ! what  sweet 
sounds  are  those,  whose  accents 
holy 

Fill  the  warm  noon  with  music  sad  and 
sweet  ! 

Elsie.  It  is  a band  of  pilgrims,  mov- 
ing slowly 

On  their  long  journey,  with  uncovered 
feet. 

Pilgrims  (ckaniing  the  Hymn  of  St. 

H ildeberf). 

Me  receptet  Sion  ilia, 

Sion  David,  urbs  tranquilla, 
Cujus  faber  auctor  lucis, 

Cujus  portse  lignum  crucis, 

Cujus  claves  lingua  Petri, 

Cujus  cives  semper  Ijeti, 

Cujus  muri  lapis  vivus, 

Cujus  custos  Rex  festivus  ! 

Lucifer  {as  a Friar  in  the  proces- 
sion). Here  am  I,  too,  in  the 
pious  band. 

In  the  garb  of  a barefooted  Carmelite 
dressed  I 

8 


1 1.3 

The  soles  of  my  feet  are  as  hard  and 
tanned 

As  the  conscience  of  old  Pope  Hilde- 
brand, 

The  Holy  Satan,  who  made  the  wives 
Of  the  bishops  lead  such  shameful 
lives. 

All  day  long  I beat  my  breast. 

And  chant  with  a most  particular  zest 
The  Latin  hymns,  which  I understand 
Quite  as  well,  I think,  as  the  rest. 

And  at  night  such  lodging  in  barns  and 
sheds. 

Such  a hurly-burly  in  country  inns. 
Such  a clatter  oftongues  in  empty  heads. 
Such  a helter-skelter  of  prayers  and 
sins ! 

Of  all  the  contrivances  of  the  time 
F or  sowing  broadcast  the  seeds  of  crime. 
There  is  none  so  pleasing  to  me  and 
mine 

As  a pilgrimage  to  some  far-off  shrine ! 

Prince  Henry.  If  from  the  outward 
man  we  judge  the  inner. 

And  cleanliness  is  godliness,  I fear 
A hopeless  reprobate,  a hardened  sin- 
ner, ' 

Must  be  that  Carmelite  now  passing 
near. 

Lucifer.  There  is  my  German  Prince 
again. 

Thus  far  on  his  journey  to  Salem, 

And  the  lovesick  girl,  whose  heated 
brain 

Is  sowing  the  cloud  to  reap  the  rain  ; 
But  it ’s  a long  road  that  has  no  turn  ! 
Let  them  quietly  hold  their  way, 

I have  also  a part  in  the  play. 

But  first  I must  act  to  my  heart’s  con- 
tent 

This  mummery  and  this  merriment. 
And  drive  this  motley  flock  of  sheep 
Into  the  fold,  where  drink  and  sleep 
The  jolly  old  friars  of  Benevent. 

Of  a truth,  it  often  provokes  me  to  laugh 
To  see  these  beggars  hobble  along. 
Lamed  and  maimed,  and  fed  upon  chaff. 
Chanting  their  wonderful  piff  and  pafl^ 
And,  to  make  up  for  not  understanding 
the  song. 

Singing  it  fiercely,  and  wild,  and  strong  ? 
Were  it  not  for  my  magic  garters  and 
staff. 

And  the  goblets  of  goodly  wine  I quaff, 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


And  the  mischief  I make  in  the  idle 
throng, 

I should  not  continue  the  business  long. 

Pilgrims  {chanting). 

In  hac  urbe,  lux  solenms, 

Ver  aeternum,  pax  perennis ; 

In  hac  odor  implens  caslos, 

In  hac  semper  festuin  melos  ! 

Prince  Henry.  Do  you  observe  that 
monk  among  the  train, 

Who  pours  from  his  great  throat  the 
roaring  bass, 

As  a cathedral  spout  pours  out  the  rain, 

And  this  way  turns  his  rubicund,  round 
face? 

Elsie.  It  is  the  same  who,  on  the 
Strasburg  square, 

Preached  to  the  people  in  the  open  air. 

Prhtce  Henry.  And  he  has  crossed 
o’er  mountain,  field,  and  fell. 

On  that  good  steed,  that  seems  to  bear 
him  well. 

The  hackney  of  the  Friars  of  Orders 
Gray, 

His  own  stout  legs  ! He,  too,  was  in 
the  play. 

Both  as  King  Herod  and  Ben  Israel. 

Good  morrow.  Friar ! 

Friar  Cidhbert.  Good  morrow,  no- 
ble sir  ! 

Prince  Henry.  I speak  in  German, 
for,  unless  I err. 

You  are  a German. 

Friar  Czithbert.  1 cannot  gainsay 
you. 

But  by  what  instinct,  or  what  secret 
sign. 

Meeting  me  here,  do  you  straightway 
divine 

That  northward  of  the  Alps  my  coun- 
try lies  ? 

Prince  Henry.  Your  accent,  like  St. 
Peter’s,  would  betray  you. 

Did  not  your  yellow  beard  and  your 
blue  eyes. 

Moreover,  we  have  seen  your  face  be- 
fore. 

And  heard  you  preach  at  the  Cathedral 
door 

On  Easter  Sunday,  in  the  Strasburg 
square. 

We  were  among  the  crowd  that  gath- 
ered there. 


And  saw  you  play  the  Rabbi  with  great 
skill. 

As  if,  by  leaning  o’er  so  many  years 
To  walk  with  little  children,  your  own 
will 

Had  caught  a childish  attitude  from 
theirs, 

A kind  of  stooping  in  its  form  and  gait. 
And  could  no  longer  stand  erect  and 
straight. 

Whence  come  you  now? 

Friar  Cuthbert.  From  the  old  mon- 
astery 

Of  Hirschau,  in  the  forest ; being  sent 
Upon  a pilgrimage  to  Benevent, 

To  see  the  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
That  moves  its  holy  eyes,  and  some- 
times speak.s. 

And  lets  the  piteous  tears  run  down  its 
cheeks, 

To  touch  the  hearts  of  the  impenitent. 

Prince  Henry.  O,  had  I faith,  as  in 
the  days  gone  by. 

That  knew  no  doubt,  and  feared  no 
mystery ! 

Lucifer  {at  a distance).  Ho,  Cuth- 
bert ! Friar  Cuthbert ! 

Friar  Cuthbert.  Farewell,  Prince  ! 

I cannot  stay  to  argue  and  convince. 

Prince  Henry.  This  is  indeed  the 
blessed  Mary’s  land, 

Virgin  and  Mother  of  our  dear  Re- 
deemer ! 

All  hearts  are  touched  and  softened  'at 
her  name  : 

Alike  the  bandit,  with  the  bloody  hand. 
The  priest,  the  prince,  the  scholar,  and 
the  peasant. 

The  man  of  deeds,  the  visionary  dream- 
er, 

Pay  homage  to  her  as  one  ever  present ! 
And  even  as  children,  who  have  much 
offended 

A too  indulgent  father,  in  great  shame, 
Penitent,  and  yet  not  daring  unattended 
To  go  into  his  presence,  at  the  gate 
Speak  with  their  sister,  and  confiding 
wait 

Till  she  goes  in  before  and  intercedes  ; 
So  men,  repenting  of  their  evil  deeds. 
And  yet  not  venturing  rashly  to  draw 
near 

With  their  requests  an  angry  father’s 
ear. 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


115 


Offer  to  her  their  prayers  and  their 
confession, 

And  she  for  them  in  heaven  makes  in- 
tercession. 

And  if  our  Faith  had  given  us  nothing 
more 

Than  this  example  of  all  womanhood, 
So  mild,  so  merciful,  so  strong,  so  good. 
So  patient,  peaceful,  loyal,  loving,  pure. 
This  were  enough  to  prove  it  higher 
and  truer 

Than  all  the  creeds  the  world  had 
known  before. 

Pilgrims  {chanting  afar  ojff"). 
Urbs  coelestis,  urbs  beata, 

Supra  petram  collocata, 

Urbs  in  portu  satis  tuto 
De  longinquo  te  saluto, 

Te  saluto,  te  suspiro, 

Te  affecto,  te  require  ! 

The  Inti  at  Genoa.  A terrace  over- 
looking the  sea.  Night. 

Prince  Henry.  It  is  the  sea,  it  is  the 
sea, 

In  all  its  vague  immensity. 

Fading  and  darkening  in  the  distance  ! 
Silent,  majestical,  and  slow. 

The  white  ships  haunt  it  to  and  fro. 
With  all  their  ghostly  sails  unfurled, 

As  phantoms  from  another  world 
Haunt  the  dim  confines  of  existence  ! 
But  ah  ! how  few  can  comprehend 
Their  signals,  or  to  what  good  end 
From  land  to  land  they  come  and  go  ! 
Upon  a sea  more  vast  and  dark 
The  spirits  of  the  dead  embark. 

All  voyaging  to  unknown  coasts. 

We  wave  our  farewells  from  the  shore. 
And  they  depart,  and  come  no  more. 
Or  come  as  phantoms  and  as  ghosts. 
Above  the  darksome  sea  of  death 
Looms  the  great  life  that  is  to  be, 

A land  of  cloud  and  mystery, 

A dim  mirage,  with  shapes  of  men 
Long  dead,  and  passed  beyond  our  ken. 
Awe-struck  wegaze,  and  hold  our  breath 
Till  the  fair  pageant  vanish eth. 
Leaving  us  in  perplexity. 

And  doubtful  whether  it  has  been 
A vision  of  the  world  unseen. 

Or  a bright  image  of  our  own 
Against  the  sky  in  vapors  thrown. 


Lucifer  {singing  from  the  sea). 
Thou  didst  not  make  it,  thou 
canst  not  mend  it. 

But  thou  hast  the  power  to  end  it  ! 

The  sea  is  silent,  the  sea  is  discreet. 
Deep  it  lies  at  thy  very  feet ; 

There  is  no  confessor  like  unto  Death  ! 
Thou  canst  not  see  him,  but  he  is  near ; 
Thou  needest  not  whisper  above  thy 
breath. 

And  he  will  hear  ; 

He  will  answer  the  questions. 

The  vague  surmises  and  suggestions, 
That  fill  thy  soul  with  doubt  and  fear  I 
Prince  Henry.  I’he  fisherman,  who 
lies  afloat. 

With  shadowy  sail,  in  yonder  boat, 

Is  singing  softlj'  to  the  Night  ! 

But  do  I comprehend  aright 
The  meaning  of  the  words  he  sung 
So  sweetly  in  his  native  tongue  ? 

Ah  yes  ! the  sea  is  still  and  deep. 

All  things  within  its  bosom  sleep  ! 

A single  step,  and  all  is  o’er  ; 

A plunge,  a bubble,  and  no  more; 

And  thou,  dear  Elsie,  wilt  be  free 
From  martyrdom  and  agony. 

Elsie  {coming  from  her  chamber 
upon  the  terrace).  The  night  is 
calm  and  cloudless. 

And  still  as  still  can^be. 

And  the  stars  come  forth  to  listen 
To  the  music  of  the  sea. 

They  gather,  and  gather,  and  gather, 
Until  they  crowd  the  sky. 

And  listen,  m breathless  silence, 

To  the  solemn  litany. 

It  begins  in  rocky  caverns. 

As  a voice  that  chants  alone 
To  the  pedals  of  the  organ 
In  monotonous  undertone  ; 

And  anon  from  shelving  beaches. 

And  shallow  sands  beyond, 

In  snow-white  robes  uprising 
The  ghostly  choirs  respond. 

And  sadly  and  unceasing 
The  mournful  voice  sings  on. 

And  the  snow-white  choirs  still  answer 
Christe  eleison  ! 

Prince  Henry  Angel  of  God!  thy 
finer  sense  perceives 
Celestial  and  perpetual  harmonies! 
Thy  purer  soul,  that  trembles  and  be- 
lieves, 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


ii6 

Hears  the  archangel’s  trumpet  in  the 
breeze, 

And  where  the  forest  rolls,  or  ocean 
heaves, 

Cecilia’s  organ  sounding  in  the  seas. 
And  tongues  of  prophets  speaking  in 
the  leaves. 

But  I hear  discord  only  and  despair. 
And  whispers  as  of  demons  in  the  air  ! 

At  sea. 

II  Padrone.  The  wind  upon  our 
quarter  lies. 

And  on  before  the  freshening  gale. 

That  fills  the  snow-white  lateen  sail, 
Swiftly  our  light  felucca  flies. 

Around,  the  billows  burst  and  foam  ; 
They  lift  her  o’er  the  sunken  rock. 
They  beat  her  sides  with  many  a shock. 
And  then  upon  their  flowing  dome 
They  poise  her,  like  a weathercock  ! 
Between  us  and  the  western  skies 
The  hills  of  Corsica  arise  ; 

Eastward,  in  yonder  long,  blue  line. 
The  summits  of  the  Apennine, 

And  southward,  and  still  far  away, 
Salerno,  on  its  sunny  bay. 

You  cannot  see  it,  where  it  lies. 

Prince  Henry,  Ah,  would  that  never- 
more mine  eyes 

Might  see  its  towers  by  night  or  day  ! 

Elsie.  Behind  us,  dark  and  awfully, 
There  comes  a cloud  out  of  the  sea. 
That  bears  the  form  of  a hunted  deer. 
With  hide  of  brown,  and  hoofs  of 
black. 

And  antlers  laid  upon  its  back. 

And  fleeing  fast  and  wild  with  fear. 

As  if  the  hounds  were  on  its  track  ! 
Prince  Henry.  Lo  ! while  we  gaze, 
it  breaks  and  falls 
In  shapeless  masses,  like  the  walls 
Of  a burnt  city.  Broad  and  red 
The  fires  of  the  descending  sun 
Glare  through  the  windows,  and  o’er- 
head. 

Athwart  the  vapors,  dense  and  dun, 
Long  shafts  of  silvery  light  arise. 

Like  rafters  that  support  the  skies  ! 
Elsie.  See!  from  its  summit  the  lurid 
levin 

Flashes  downward  without  warning, 

As  Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning, 

Fell  from  the  battlements  of  heaven  1 


II  Pa-drone.  I must  entreat  you, 
friends,  below  ! 

The  angry  storm  begins  to  blow. 

For  the  weather  changes  with  the  moon. 
All  this  morning,  until  noon, 

W e had  baffling  winds,  and  sudden  flaws 
Struck  the  sea  with  their  cat’s-paws. 
Only  a little  hour  ago 
I was  whistling  to  Saint  Antonio 
For  a capful  of  wind  to  fill  our  sail, 

And  instead  of  a breeze  he  has  sent  a 
gale. 

Last  night  I saw  Saint  Elmo’s  stars. 
With  their  glimmering  lanterns,  all  at 
play 

On  the  tops  of  the  masts  and  the  tips 
of  the  spars. 

And  I knew  we  should  have  foul  weather 
to-day. 

Cheerly,  my  hearties  ! yo  heave  ho  ! 
Brail  up  the  mainsail,  and  let  her  go 
As  the  winds  will  and  Saint  Antonio  ! 
Do  you  see  that  Livornese  felucca. 
That  vessel  to  the  windward  yonder, 
Running  with  her  gunwale  under  ? 

I waslookingwhen  thewindo’ertookher. 
She  had  all  sail  set,  and  the  only  wonder 
Is,  that  at  once  the  strength  of  the  blast 
Did  not  carry  away  her  mast. 

She  is  a galley  of  the  Gran  Duca, 

That,  through  the  fear  of  the  Algerines, 
Convoys  those  lazy  brigantines. 

Laden  with  wine  and  oil  from  Lucca. 
Now  all  is  ready,  high  and  low  ; 

Blow,  blow,  good  Saint  Antonio  ! 

Ha  I that  is  the  first  dash  of  the  rain, 
With  a sprinkle  of  spfay  above  the  rails. 
Just  enough  to  moisten  our  sails. 

And  make  them  ready  for  the  strain. 
See  how  she  leaps,  as  the  blasts  o’er- 
take  her. 

And  speeds  away  with  a bone  in  her 
mouth  I 

Now  keep  her  head  toward  the  south. 
And  there  is  no  danger  of  bank  or 
breaker. 

With  the  breeze  behind  us,  on'we  go; 
Not  too  much,  good  Saint  Antonio  1 

VI. 

The  School  of  Salerno.  A travelling 
Scholastic  affixing  his  Theses  to  the 
gate  of  the  College. 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


[17 


Scholastic.  There,  that  is  rny  gaunt- 
let, my  banner,  my  shield. 

Hung  up  as  a challenge  to  all  the  field  ! 

One  liundred  and  twenty-five  proposi- 
tions. 

Which  I will  maintain  with  the  sword 
of  the  tongue 

Against  all  disputants,  old  and  young. 

Let  us  see  if  doctors  or  dialecticians 

Will  dare  to  dispute  my  definitions, 

Or  attack  any  one  of  my  learned  theses. 

Here  stand  I;  the  end  shall  be  as  God 
pleases- 

I think  I have  proved,  by  profound 
researches, 

The  error  of  all  those  doctrines  so 
vicious 

Of  the  old  Areopagite  Dionysius, 

That  are  making  such  terrible  work  in 
the  churches. 

By  Michael  the  Stammerer  sent  from 
the  East, 

And  done  into  Latin  by  that  Scottish 
beast, 

Johannes  Duns  Scotus,  who  dares  to 
maintain. 

In  the  face  of  the  truth,  the  error  in- 
fernal. 

That  the  universe  is  and  must  be  eter- 
nal ; 

At  first  laying  down,  as  a fact  funda- 
mental. 

That  nothing  with  God  can  be  acci- 
dental ; 

Then  asserting  that  God  before  the 
creation 

Could  not  have  existed,  because  it  is 
plain 

That,  had  he  existed,  he  would  have 
created  ; 

Which  is  begging  the  question  that 
should  be  debated. 

And  moveth  me  less  to  anger  than 
laughter. 

All  nature,  he  holds,  is  a respiration 

Of  the  Spirit  of  God,  who,  in  breathing, 
hereafter 

Will  inhale  it  into  his  bosom  again. 

So  that  nothing  but  God  alone  will 
remain. 

And  therein  he  contradicteth  hirnself ; 

For  he  opens  the  whole  discussion  by 
stating. 

That  God  can  only  exist  in  creating. 


That  question  I think  I have  laid  on 
the  shelf ! 

(Ho  goes  out.  Two  Doctors  come  in 

disputing.,  and followed  by  pupils.') 

Doctor  Serafino.  I,  with  the  Doctor 
Seraphic,  maintain. 

That  a word  which  is  only  conceived 
in  the  brain 

Is  a type  of  eternal  Generation  ; 

The  spoken  word  is  the  Incarnation. 

Doctor  Cherubino.  What  do  I care 
for  the  Doctor  Seraphic, 

With  all  hds  wordy  chaffer  and  traffic? 

Doctor  Serafino.  You  make  but  a 
paltry  show  of  resistance  ; 
Universals  have  no  real  existence  ! 

Doctor  Cherubino.  Your  words  are 
but  idle  and  empty  chatter ; 
Ideas  are  eternally  joined  to  matter  ! 

Doctor  Serafino.  May  the  Lord  have 
mercy  on  your  position, 
Youwretched,  wrangling  culler  of  herbs! 

Doctor  Cherubino  May  he  send  your 
soul  to  eternal  perdition. 

For  yourTreatiseon  the  Irregular  Verbs! 
{They  rush  out  fighting.  Two  Schol- 
ars come  in.) 

First  Scholar.  Monte  Cassino,  then, 
is  your  College. 

What  think  you  of  ours  here  at  Salem  ? 

Second  Scholar.  To  tell  the  truth,  I 
arrived  so  lately, 

I hardly  yet  have  had  time  to  discern. 
So  much,  at  least,  I am  bound  to  ac- 
knowledge ; 

The  air  seems  healthy,  the  buildings 
stately. 

And  on  the  whole  I like  it  greatly. 

First  Scholar.  Yes,  the  air  is  sweet ; 
the  Calabrian  hills 
Send  us  down  puffs  of  mountain  air  ; 
And  in  summer-time  the  sea-breeze  fills 
With  its  coolness  cloister  and  court 
and  square. 

Then  at  every  season  of  the  year 
There  are  crowds  of  guests  and  travel- 
lers here  ; 

Pilgrims,  and  mendicant  friars,  and 
traders 

From  the  Levant,  with  figs  and  wine. 
And  bands  of  wounded  and  sick  Cru- 
saders, 

Coming  back  from  Palestine. 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Second  Scholar.  And  what  are  the 
studies  you  pursue  ? 

What  is  the  course  you  here  go  through  ? 
First  Scholar.  The  first  three  years 
of  the  college  course 
Are  given  to  Logic  alone,  as  the  source 
Of  all  that  is  noble,  and  wise,  and  true. 
Second  Scholar.  That  seems  rather 
strange,  I must  confess. 

In  a Medical  School ; yet,  neverthe- 
less. 

You  doubtless  have  reasons  for  that. 

First  Scholar,  O yes  I 

For  none  but  a clever  dialectician 
Can  hope  to  become  a great  physician ; 
That  has  been  settled  long  ago. 

Logic  makes  an  important  part 
Of  the  mystery  of  the  healing  art  ; 

For  without  it  how  could  you  hope  to 
show 

That  nobody  knows  so  much  as  you 
know  ? 

After  this  there  are  five  years  more 
Devoted  wholly  to  medicine. 

With  lectures  on  chirurgical  lore. 

And  dissections  of  the  bodies  of  swine, 
As  likest  the  human  form  divine. 
Second  Scholar.  What  are  the  books 
now  most  in  vogue  ? 

First  Scholar.  Quite  an  extensive 
catalogue  ; 

Mostly,  however,  books  of  our  own  ; 

As  Gariopontus’  Passionarius, 

And  the  writings  of  Matthew  Platea- 
rius ; 

And  a volume  universally  known 
As  the  Regimen  of  the  School  of  Salem, 
F or  Robert  of  Normandy  written  in  terse 
And  very  elegant  Latin  verse. 

Each  of  these  writings  has  its  turn. 

And  when  at  length  we  have  finished 
these. 

Then  comes  the  struggle  for  degrees, 
With  all  the  olde^  and  ablest  critics  ; 
The  public  thesis  and  disputation. 
Question,  and  answer,  and  explanation 
Of  a passage  out  of  Hippocrates, 

Or  Aristotle’s  Analytics. 

There  the  triumphant  Magister  stands  ! 
A book  is  solemnly  placed  in  his  hands, 
On  which  he  swears  to  follow  the  rule 
And  ancient  forms  of  the  good  old 
School ; 

To  report  if  any  confectionarius 


Mingles  his  drugs  with  matters  various, 
And  to  visit  his  patients  twice  a day. 
And  once  in  the  night,  if  they  live  in 
town. 

And  if  they  are  poor,  to  take  no  pay. 
Having  faithfully  promised  these. 

His  head  is  crowned  with  a laurel  crown ; 
A kiss  on  his  cheek,  a ring  on  his  hand, 
The  Magister  Artium  et  Physices 
Goes  forth  from  the  school  like  a lord  of 
the  land. 

And  now,  as  we  have  the  whole  morning 
before  us. 

Let  us  go  m,  if  you  make  no  objection. 
And  listen  awhile  to  a learned  prelection 
On  Marcus  Aurelius  Cassiodorus. 

{'They  go  in.  Enter  Lucifer  as  a 
Doctor.) 

Lucifer.  This  is  the  great  School  of 
Salem  ! 

A land  of  wrangling  and  of  quarrels. 

Of  brains  that  seethe,  and  hearts  that 
burn. 

Where  every  emulous  scholar  hears, 

In  every  breath  that  comes  to  his  ears. 
The  rustling  of  another’s  laurels  ! 

The  air  of  the  place  is  called  salubrious  ; 
The  neighborhood  of  Vesuvius  lends  it 
An  odor  volcanic,  that  rather  mends  it. 
And  the  buildings  have  an  aspect  lugu- 
brious. 

That  inspires  a feeling  of  awe  and  terror 
Into  the  heart  of  the  beholder. 

And  befits  such  an  ancient  homestead  of 
error. 

Where  the  old  falsehoods  moulder  and 
smoulder. 

And  yearly  by  many  hundred  hands 
Are  carried  away,  in  the  zeal  of  youth. 
And  sown  like  tares  in  the  field  of  truth, 
To  blossom  and  ripen  in  other  lands. 
What  have  we  here,  affixed  to  the  gate  ? 
The  challenge  of  some  scholastic  wight, 
Who  wishes  to  hold  a public  debate 
On  sundry  questions  wrong  or  right ! 
Ah,  now  this  is  my  great  delight  ! 

For  I have  often  observed  of  late 
That  such  discussions  end  in  a fight._ 
Let  us  see  what  the  learned  wag  main- 
tains 

With  such  a prodigal  waste  of  brains, 
{Reads. ) 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND 


19 


“ Whether  angels  in  moving  from  place 
to  place 

Pass  through  the  intermediate  space, 
Whether  God  himself  is  the  author  of 
evil, 

Or  whether  that  is  the  work  of  the  Devil 
When,  where,  and  wherefore  Lucifer  fell. 
And  whether  he  now  is  chained  in  hell.  ” 
I think  I can  answer  that  question  well ! 
So  long  as  the  boastful  human  mind 
Consents  in  such  mills  as  this  to  grind, 

I sit  very  firmly  upon  my  throne  ! 

Of  a truth  it  almost  makes  me  laugh. 
To  see  men  leaving  the  golden  grain 
To  gather  in  piles  the  pitiful  chaff 
That  old  Peter  Lombard  thrashed  with 
his  brain. 

To  have  it  caught  up  and  tossed  again 
On  the  horns  of  the  Dumb  Ox  of  Co- 
logne ! 

But  my  guests  approach  ! there  is  in  the 
air 

A fragrance,  like  that  of  the  Beautiful 
Garden 

Of  Paradise,  in  the  days  that  were  ! 

An  odor  of  innocence,  and  of  prayer. 
And  of  love,  and  faith  that  never  fails, 
Such  as  the  fresh  young  heart  exhales 
Before  it  begins  to  wither  and  harden  ! 

I cannot  breathe  such  an  atmosphere  ! 
My  soul  is  filled  with  a nameless  fear. 
That,  after  all  my  trouble  and  pain. 
After  all  my  restless  endeavor, 

The  youngest,  fairest  soul  of  the  twain. 
The  most  ethereal,  most  divine. 

Will  escape  from  my  hands  for  ever  and 
ever. 

But  the  other  is  already  mine  ! 

Let  him  live  to  corrupt  his  race. 
Breathing  among  them,  with  every 
bieath. 

Weakness,  selfishness,  and  the  base 
And  pusillanimous  fear  of  death. 

I know  his  nature,  and  I know 
That  of  all  who  in  my  ministry 
Wander  the  great  earth  to  and  fro. 

And  on  my  errands  come  and  go. 

The  safest  and  subtlest  are  such  as  he. 
{Enter  Prince  Henry  and  Elsie, 
with  attendants.) 

Prince  Henry.  Can  you  direct  us  to 
Friar  Angelo? 


Lucifer.  He  stands  before  you. 

Prince  Henry.  Then  you  know  our 
purpose. 

I am  Prince  Henry  of  Hoheneck,  and 
this 

The  maiden  that  I spake  of  in  my  letters. 

Lucifer.  It  is  a very  grave  and  sol- 
emn business  ! 

We  must  not  be  precipitate  Does  she 
W ithout  compulsion,  of  her  own  freewill, 
Consent  to  this  ? 

Prince  Henry.  Against  all  opposi- 
tion. 

Against  all  prayers,  entreaties,  protes- 
tations. 

She  will  not  be  persuaded. 

Lticifer.  That  is  strange  ! 

Have  you  thought  well  of  it  ? 

Elsie.  I come  not  here 

To  argue,  but  to  die.  Your  business 
is  not 

To  question,  bufto  kill  me.  I am  ready. 
I am  impatient  to  be  gone  from  here 
Ere  any  thoughts  of  earth  disturb  again 
The  spirit  of  tranquillity  within  me. 

Prince  Henry.  Would  I had  not 
come  here  ! Would  I were  dead. 
And  thou  wert  in  thy  cottage  in  the 
forest. 

And  hat^st  not  known  me  ! Why  have 
I done  this  ? 

Let  me  go  back  and  die. 

Elsie.  It  cannot  be  ; 

Not  if  these  cold,  flat  stones  on  which 
we  tread 

Were  coulters  heated  white,  and  yonder 
gateway 

Flamed  like  a furnace  with  a seven-fold 
heat. 

I must  fulfil  my  purpose. 

Prince  Henry.  I forbid  it ! 

Not  one  step  farther.  For  I only  meant 
To  put  thus  far  thy  courage  to  the  proof. 
It  is  enough.  I,  too,  have  strength  to 
die. 

For  thou  hast  taught  me  ! 

Elsie.  O my  Prince  ! remember 
Your  promises.  Let  me  fulfil  my  er- 
rand. 

You  do  not  look  on  life  and  death  as  I do. 
There  are  two  angels,  that  attend  unseen 
Each  one  of  us,  and  in  great  books  record 
Our  good  and  evil  deeds.  He  who 
writes  down 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


The  good  ones,  after  every  action  closes 
His  volume,  and  ascends  with  it  to  God. 
The  other  keeps  his  dreadful  day-book 
open 

Till  sunset,  that  we  may  repent ; which 
doing. 

The  record  of  the  action  fades  away. 
And  leaves  a line  of  white  across  the 
page. 

Now  if  my  act  be  good,  as  I believe. 

It  cannot  be  recalled.  It  is  already 
Sealed  up  in  heaven,  as  a good  deed 
accomplished. 

The  rest  is  yours.  Why  wait  you?  I 
am  ready. 

her  attendants.') 

Weep  not,  my  friends!  rather  rejoice 
with  me. 

I shall  not  feel  the  pain,  but  shall  be 
gone. 

And  you  will  have  another^  friend  in 
. heaven. 

Then  start  not  at  the  creaking  of  the 
door 

Through  which  I pass.  I see  what  lies 
beyond  it. 

{To  Princb  Henry.) 

And  you,  O Prince  ! bear  back  my 
benison 

Unto  my  father’s  house,  and  all  within 
it. 

This  morning  in  the  church  I prayed 
for  them. 

After  confession,  after  absolution. 
When  my  whole  soul  was  white,  I 
prayed  for  them. 

God  will  take  care  of  them,  they  need 
me  not. 

And  in  your  life  let  my  remembrance 
linger. 

As  something  not  to  trouble  and  dis- 
turb it. 

But  to  complete  it,  adding  life  to  life. 
And  if  at  times  beside  the  evening  fire 
You  see  my  face  among  the  other  faces. 
Let  it  not  be  regarded  as  a ghost 
That  haunts  your  house,  but  as  a guest 
that  loves  you. 

Nay,  even  as  one  of  your  own  family, 
Without  whose  presence  there  were 
something  wanting. 

I have  no  more  to  say.  Let  us  go  in. 


Prince  Henry.  Friar  Angelo  I I 
charge  you  on  your  life. 

Believe  not  what  she  says,  for  she  is  mad, 
And  comes  here  not  to  die,  but  to  be 
healed. 

Elsie.  Alas  ! Prince  Henry  ! 

Lucifer.  Come  with  me  ; this  way. 
(Elsie  goes  in  with  Lucifer,  who 
thrusts  Prince  Henry  back  and 
closes  the  door.) 

Prince  Henry.  Gone  ! and  the  light 
of  all  my  life  gone  with  her  ! 

A sudden  darkness  falls  upon  the  world  ! 
O,  what  a vile  and  abject  thing  am  I, 
That  purchase  length  of  days  at  such  a 
cost  I 

N ot  by  her  death  alone,  but  by  the  death 
Of  all  that ’s  good  and  true  and  noble 
• in  me  I 

All  manhood,  excellence,  and  self-re- 
spect. 

All  love,  and  faith,  and  hope,  and  heart 
are  dead  ! 

All  my  divine  nobility  of  nature 
By  this  one  act  is  forfeited  forever. 

I am  a Prince  in  nothing  but  in  name  I 
{To  the  attendants.) 

Why  did  you  let  this  horrible  deed  be 
done  ? 

Why  did  you  not  lay  hold  on  her,  and 
keep  her 

From  self-destruction?  Angelo!  mur- 
derer ! 

{Struggles  at  the  door.,  hut  cannot 
open  it.) 

Elsie  {within).  F arewell,  dear  Prince  I 
farewell ! 

Prince  Henry.  Unbar  the  door  I 
Lucifer.  It  is  too  late  ! 

Prince  Henry.  It  shall  not  be  toff 
late  ! 

{They  burst  the  door  open  and  rush  in.) 

The  Cottage  in  the  Odenwald.  Ursu- 
la spinning.  Summer  afternoon. 
A table  spread. 

Ursula.  I have  marked  it  well,  — it 
must  be  true,  — 

Death  never  takes  one  alone,  but  two  I 
Whenever  he  enters  in  at  a door. 
Under  roof  of  gold  or  roof  of  thatch, 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


121 


He  always  leaves  it  upon  the  latch, 

And  comes  again  ere  the  year  is  o’er. 
Never  one  of  a household  only  ! 
Perhaps  it  is  a mercy  of  God, 

Lest  the  dead  there  under  the  sod. 

In  the  land  of  strangers,  should  be 
lonely ! 

Ah  me  ! I think  I am  lonelier  here  ! 

It  is  hard  to  go,  — but  harder  to  stay  ! 
Were  it  not  for  the  children,  I should 
pray 

That  Death  would  take  me  within  the 
year  ! 

And  Gottlieb  ! — he  is  at  work  all  day. 
In  the  sunny  field,  or  the  forest  murk. 
But  I knowthat  his  thoughtsarefar  away, 
I know  that  his  heart  is  not  in  his  work  ! 
And  when  he  comes  home  to  me  at  night 
He  is  not  cheery,  but  sits  and  sighs. 
And  I see  the  great  tears  in  his  eyes. 
And  try  to  be  cheerful  for  his  sake. 
Only  the  children’s  hearts  are  light. 
Mine  is  weary,  and  ready  to  break. 

God  help  us  ! I hope  we  have  done  right ; 
We  thought  we  were  acting  for  the  best ! 

(^Looking  through  the  open  door.) 
Who  is  it  coming  under  the  trees  ? 

A man,  in  the  Prince’s  livery  dressed  ! 
He  looks  about  him  with  doubtful  face, 
As  if  uncertain  of  the  place. 

He  stops  at  the  beehives  ; — now  he  sees 
The  garden  gate  ; — he  is  going  past ! 
Can  he  be  afraid  of  the  bees? 

No  : he  is  coming  in  at  last  ! 

He  fills  my  heart  with  strange  alarm  ! 
{^Enter  a Forester.) 

Forester.  Is  this  the  tenant  Gottlieb’s 
farm  ? 

Ursula.  This  is  his  farm,  and  I his 
wife. 

Pray  sit.  What  may  your  business  be  ? 
Forester.  News  from  the  Prince  ! 

U rsula.  Of  death  or  life  ? 

Forester.  You  put  your  questions 
eagerly  ! 

Ursula.  Answer  me,  then  ! How  is 
the  Prince? 

Forester.  I left  him  only  two  hours 
since 

Homeward  returning  down  the  river, 
As  strong  and  well  as  if  God,  the  Giver, 
Had  given  him  back  his  youth  again. 


Ursula  {despairing).  Then  Elsie,  my 
poor  child,  is  dead  ! 

Forester,  l hat,  my  good  woman,  I 
have  not  said. 

Don’t  cross  the  bridge  till  you  come  to  it, 
Is  a proverb  old,  and  of  excellent  wit. 

Ursula.  Keep  me  no  longer  in  this 
pain  ! 

Forester.  It  is  true  your  daughter  is 
no  more ; — 

That  is,  the  peasant  she  was  before. 

Ursula.  Alas  ! I am  simple  and  lowly 
bred, 

I am  poor,  distracted,  and  forlorn. 

And  it  is  not  well  that  you  of  the  court 
Should  mock  me  thus,  and  make  a sport 
Of  a joyless  mother  whose  child  is  dead, 
F or  you,  too,  were  of  mother  born  ! 

Forester.  Your  daughter  lives,  and 
the  Prince  is  well ! 

You  will  learn  erelong  how  it  all  befell. 
Her  heart  for  a moment  never  failed ; 
But  when  they  reached  Salerno’s  gate. 
The  Prince’s  nobler  self  prevailed, 

And  saved  her  for  a nobler  fate. 

And  he  was  healed,  in  his  despair. 

By  the  touch  of  St.  Matthew’s  sacred 
bones ; 

Though  I think  the  long  ride  in  the  open 
air. 

That  pilgrimage  over  stocks  and  stones. 
In  the  miracle  must  come  in  fora  share  ! 

Ursula.  Virgin  ! who  lovest  the  poor 
and  lowly. 

If  the  loud  cry  of  a mother’s  heart 
Can  ever  ascend  to  where  thou  art, 

Into  thy  blessed  hands  and  holy 
Receive  my  prayer  of  praise  and  thanks- 
giving ! 

Let  the  hands  that  bore  our  Saviour 
bear  it 

Into  the  awful  presence  of  God  ; 

For  thy  feet  with  holiness  are  shod. 
And  if  thou  bearest  it  he  will  hear  it. 
Our  child  who  was  dead  again  is  living  I 

Forester.  I did  not  tell  you  she  was 
dead  ; 

If  you  thought  so  ’t  was  no  fault  of 
mine  ; 

At  this  very  moment,  while  I speak. 
They  are  sailing  homeward  down  the 
Rhine, 

In  a splendid  barge,  with  golden  prow. 
And  decked  with  banners  white  and  red 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


As  the  colors  on  your  daughter’s  cheek. 
They  call  her  the  Lady  Alicia  now  ; 

For  the  Prince  in  Salerno  made  a vow 
That  Elsie  only  would  he  wed. 

Ursula.  J esu  Maria ! what  a change ! 
All  seems  to  me  so  weird  and  strange  ! 
Forester.  I saw  her  standing  on  the 
deck, 

Beneath  an  awning  cool  and  .shady ; 
Her  cap  of  velvet  could  not  hold 
The  tresses  of  her  hair  of  gold, 

That  flowed  and  floated  like  the  stream. 
And  fell  in  masses  down  her  neck. 

As  fair  and  lovely  did  she  seem 
As  in  a story  or  a dream 
Some  beautiful  and  foreign  lady. 

And  the  Prince  looked  so  grand  and 
proud, 

And  waved  his  hand  thus  to  the  crowd 
That  gazed  and  shouted  from  the  shore. 
All  down  the  river,  long  and  loud. 
Ursula.  We  shall  behold  our  child 
once  more  ; 

She  is  not  dead  ! She  is  not  dead  ! 
God,  listening,  must  have  overheard 
The  prayers,  that,  without  sound  or 
word. 

Our  hearts  in  secrecy  have  said  ! 

O,  bring  me  to  her  ; for  mine  eyes 
Are  hungry  to  behold  her  face  ; 

My  very  soul  within  me  cries  ; 

My  very  hands  seem  to  caress  her. 

To  see  her,  gaze  at  her,  and  bless  her; 
Dear  Elsie,  child  of  God  and  grace  ! 
(Goes  otit  toward  the  garden.) 
Forester.  There  goes  the  good  wo- 
man out  of  her  head  ; 

And  Gottlieb’s  supper  is  waiting  here  ; 
A very  capacious  flagon  of  beer. 

And  a very  portentous  loaf  of  bread. 
One  would  say  his  grief  did  not  much 
oppress  him. 

Here ’s  to  the  health  of  the  Prince,  God 
bless  him  ! 

(He  drinks.) 

Ha  ! it  buzzes  and  stings  like  a hornet ! 
And  what  a scene  there,  through  the 
door  ! 

The  forest  behind  and  the  garden  be- 
fore. 

And  midway  an  old  man  of  threescore. 
With  awife  and  children  that  caresshim. 


Let  me  try  still  further  to  cheer  and 
adorn  it 

With  a merry,  echoing  blast  of  my  cor- 
net ! 

(Goes  out  blowing  his  horni) 

The  Castle  of  Vautsberg  on  the  Rhine. 
Prince  Henry  and  Elsie  standing 
on  the  terrace  at  evening.  The 
sou7id  of  bells  heard from  a distance. 

Prince  Henry.  We  are  alone.  The 
wedding  guests 

Ride  down  the  hill,  with  plumes  and 
cloaks. 

And  the  descending  dark  invests 
The  Niederwald,  and  all  the  nests 
Among  its  hoar  and  haunted  oaks. 
Elsie.  What  bells  are  those,  that 
ring  so  slow. 

So  mellow,  musical,  and  low? 

Prince  Henry.  They  are  the  bells 
of  Geisenheim, 

That  with  their  melancholy  chime 
Ring  out  the  curfew  of  the  sun. 

Elsie.  Listen,  beloved. 

Prince  Hetiry.  They  are  done  ! 
Dear  Elsie  ! many  years  ago 
Those  same  soft  bells  at  eventide 
Rang  in  the  ears  of  Charlemagne, 

As,  seated  by  Fastrada’s  side 
At  Ingelheim,  in  all  his  pride 
He  heard  their  sound  with  secret  pain. 

Elsie.  Their  voices  only  speak  to  me 
Of  peace  and  deep  tranquillity. 

And  endless  confidence  in  thee. 

Prince  He^iry.  Thou  knowest  the 
story  of  her  ring. 

How,  when  the  court  went  back  to  Aix, 
Fastrada  died  ; and  how  the  king 
Sat  watching  by  her  night  and  day, 

Till  into  one  of  the  blue  lakes. 

Which  water  that  delicious  land. 

They  cast  the  ring,  drawn  from  her 
hand  ; 

And  the  great  monarch  sat  serene 
And  sad  beside  the  fated  shore. 

Nor  left  the  land  forevermore. 

Elsie.  That  was  true  love. 

Prhice  Henry.  For  him  the  queen 
Ne’er  did  what  thou  hast  done  for  me. 
Elsie.  Wilt  thou  as  fond  and  faith- 
ful be  ? 

Wilt  thou  so  love  me  after  death  ? 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


Prince  Henry.  In  life’s  delight,  in 
death’s  dismay, 

In  storm  and  sunshine,  night  and  day, 
'n,  health,  in  sickness,  in  decay. 

Here  and  hereafter,  I am  thine  ! 

Thou  hast  Fastrada’s  ring.  ^ Beneath 
The  calm,  blue  waters  of  thine  eyes 
Deep  in  thy  steadfast  soul  it  lies, 

And,  undisturbed  by  this  world’s  breath. 
With  magic  light  its  jewels  shine  ! 

This  golden  ring,  which  thou  hast  worn 
Upon  thy  finger  since  the  morn, 
ts  but  a symbol  and  a semblance, 

An  outward  fashion,  a remembrance, 
9f  wnat  thou  wearest  within  unseen, 

O my  Fastrada,  O my  queen  ! 

Behold  ! the  hill-tops  all  aglow 
With  purple  and  with  amethyst ; 

While  the  whole  valley  deep  below 
Is  filled,  and  seems  to  overflow, 

With  a fast-rising  tide  of  mist. 

The  evening  air  grows  damp  and  chill ; 
Let  us  go  in. 

Elsie.  Ah,  not  so  soon. 

See  yonder  fire  ! It  is  the  moon 
Slow  rising  o’er  the  eastern  hill. 

It  glimmers  on  the  forest  tips. 

And  through  the  dewy  foliage  drips 
In  little  rivulets  of  light. 

And  makes  the  heart  in  love  with  night. 
Prince  Henry.  Oft  on  this  terrace, 
when  the  day 

Was  closing,  have  I stood  and  gazed. 
And  seen  the  landscape  fade  away. 

And  the  white  vapors  rise  and  drown 
Hamlet  and  vineyard,  tower  and  town. 
While  far  above  the  hill-tops  blazed. 
But  then  another  hand  than  thine 
Was  gently  held  and  clasped  in  mine  ; 
Another  head  upon  my  breast 
Was  laid,  as  thine  is  now,  at  rest. 

Why  dost  thou  lift  those  tender  eyes 
With  so  much  sorrow  and  surprise  ? 

A minstrel’s,  not  a maiden’s  hand. 

Was  that  which  in  my  own  was  pressed. 
A manly  form  usurped  thy  place, 

A beautiful,  but  bearded  face. 

That  now  is  in  the  Holy  Land, 

Yet  in  my  memory  from  afar 
Is  shining  on  us  like  a star. 

But  linger  not.  For  while  I speak, 

A sheeted  spectre  white  and  tall, 

The  cold  mist  climbs  the  castle  wall. 
And  lays  his  hand  upon  thy  cheek  ! 
{J'hey  go  in. ) 


123 

EPILOGUE. 

THE  TWO  RECORDING  ANGELS  AS- 
' CENDING. 

The  Angel  of  Good  Deeds  {wilh 
closed  book)  God  sent  his  mes- 
senger the  rain. 

And  said  unto  the  mountain  brook, 

“ Rise  up,  and  from  thy  caverns  look 
And  leap,  with  naked,  snow-white  feet, 
From  the  cool  hills  into  the  heat 
Of  the  broad,  arid  plain.” 

God  sent  his  messenger  of  faith. 

And  whispered  in  the  maiden’s  heart, 

“ Rise  up,  and  look  from  where  thou 
art. 

And  scatter  with  unselfish  hands 
Thy  freshness  on  the  barren  sands 
And  solitudes  of  Death.” 

O beauty  of  holiness. 

Of  self-forgetfulness,  of  lowliness  ! 

O power  of  meekness. 

Whose  very  gentleness  and  weakness 
Are  like  the  yielding,  but  irresistible 
air  ! 

Upon  the  pages 

Of  the  sealed  volume  that  I bear. 

The  deed  divine 

Is  written  in  characters  of  gold. 

That  never  shall  grow  old. 

But  through  all  ages 
Burn  and  shine. 

With  soft  effulgence  ! 

O God  ! it  is  thy  indulgence 
That  fills  the  world  with  the  bliss 
Of  a good  deed  like  this  ! 

The  A ngel  of  Evil  Deeds  {with  open 
book).  Not  yet,  not  yet 
Is  the  red  sun  wholly  set. 

But  evermore  recedes. 

While  open  still  I bear 
The  Book  of  Evil  Deeds, 

To  let  the  breathings  of  the  upper  air 
Visit  its  pages  and  erase 
The  records  from  its  face  1 
Fainter  and  fainter  as  I gaze 
In  the  broad  blaze 
The  glimmering  landscape  shines, 

And  below  me  the  black  river 
Is  hidden  by  wreaths  of  vapor  ! 

Fainter  and  fainter  the  black  lines 
Begin  to  quiver 

Along  the  whitening  surface  of  the 
paper ; 

Shade  after  shade 


124 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


The  terrible  words  grow  faint  and  fade, 
And  in  their  place 
Runs  a white  space  ! 

Down  goes  the  sun  ! 

But  the  soul  of  one, 

Who  by  repentance 

Has  escaped  the  dreadful  sentence. 

Shines  bright  below  me  as  I look. 

It  is  the  end  ! 

With  closed  Book 
To  God  do  I ascend. 

Lo  ! over  the  mountain  steeps 
A dark,  gigantic  shadow  sweeps 
Beneath  my  feet ; 

A blackness  inwardly  brightening 
With  sullen  heat. 


As  a storm-cloud  lurid  with  lightning. 
And  a cry  of  lamentation. 

Repeated  and  again  repeated. 

Deep  and  loud 

As  the-reverberation 

Of  cloud  answering  unto  cloud. 

Swells  and  rolls  away  in  the  distance. 
As  if  the  sheeted 
Lightning  retreated. 

Baffled  and  thwarted  by  the  wind’s 
resistance. 

It  is  Lucifer, 

The  son  of  mystery  ; 

And  since  God  sufers  him  to  be. 

He,  too.  is  God’s  minister. 

And  labors  for  some  good 
By  us  not  understood  1 


SECOND  INTERLUDE. 

MARTIN  LUTHER. 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


4 Chamber  in  the  War tburg.  Morn- 
ing. Martin  Luther,  writing. 

Martin  Luther. 

Our  Gnd,  a I'ower  of  Strength  is  he, 
A goodly  wall  and  weapon  ; 

From  all  our  need  he  helps  us  free, 
That  now  to  us  doth  happen. 

The  old  evil  foe 
Doth  in  earnest  grow, 

In  grim  armor  dight. 

Much  guile  and  great  might ; 

On  earth  there  is  none  like  him. 

O yes  : a tower  of  strength  indeed, 

A present  help'in  all  our  need, 

A sword  and  buckler  is  our  God. 
Innocent  men  have  walked  unshod 
O’er  burning  ploughshares,  and  have 
trod 

Unharmed  on  serpents  in  their  path. 
And  laughed  to  scorn  the  Devil’s 
wrath  ! 

Safe  in  this  Wartburg  tower  I stand 
Where  God  hath  led  me  by  the  hand. 
And  look  down,  with  a heart  at  ease. 
Over  the  pleasant  neighborhoods. 

Over  the  vast  Thuringian  Woods, 
With  flash  of  river,  and  gloom  of  trees. 
With  castles  crowning  the  dizzy 
heights. 

And  farms  and  pastoral  delights. 

And  the  morning  pouring  everywhere 
Its  golden  glory  on  the  air. 

Safe,  yes,  safe  am  I here  at  last, 

Safe  from  the  overwhelming  blast 
Of  the  mouths  of  Hell,  that  followed 
me  fast. 

And  the  howling  demons  of  despair 
That  hunted  me  like  a beast  to  his 
lair. 


Of  our  own  might  we  nothing  can  ; 
We  soon  are  unprotected  ; 

There  fighteth  for  us  the  right  Man, 
Whom  God  himself  elected. 

Who  is  he  ; ye  exclaim  ? 
Christus  is  his  name. 

Lord  of  Sabaoth, 

Very  God  in  troth  ; 

The  field  he  holds  forever. 

Nothing  can  vex  the  Devil  more 
Than  the  name  of  Him  whom  we 
adore. 

Therefore  doth  it  delight  me  best 
To  stand  in  the  choir  among  the  rest. 
With  the  great  organ  trumpeting 
Through  its  metallic  tubes,  and  sing  : 
Et  verbtim  caro  facUim  est ! 

These  words  the  Devil  cannot  endure. 
For  he  knoweth  their  meaning  well  ! 
Him  they  trouble  and  repel. 

Us  they  comfort  and  allure. 

And  happy  it  were,  if  our  delight 
Were  as  great  as  his  affright  ! 

Yea,  music  is  the  Prophets’  art ; 
Among  the  gifts  that  God  hath  sent. 
One  of  the  most  magnificent ! 

It  calms  the  agitated  heart ; 
Temptations,  evil  thoughts,  and  all 
The  passions  that  disturb  the  soul. 

Are  quelled  by  its  divine  control, 

As  the  Evil  Spirit  fled  from  Saul, 

And  his  distemper  was  allayed, 

When  David  took  his  harp  and  played. 

This  world  may  full  of  Devils  be. 

All  ready  to  devour  us  ; 

Yet  not  so  sore  afraid  are  we. 

They  shall  not  overpower  us.  ^ 
This  World’s  Prince,  howe'er 
Fierce  he  may  appear. 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


He  can  harm  us  not, 

He  is  doomed,  God  wot ! 

One  little  word  can  slay  him  ! 

Incredible  it  seems  to  some 
And  to  myself  a mystery. 

That  such  weak  flesh  and  blood  as  we. 
Armed  with  no  other  shield  or  sword. 
Or  other  weapon  than  the  Word, 
Should  combat  and  should  overcome, 
A spirit  powerful  as  he  ! 

He  summons  forth  the  Pope  of  Rome 
With  all  his  diabolic  crew. 

His  shorn  and  shaven  retinue 
Of  priests  and  children  of  the  dark  ; 
Kill ! kill ! they  cry,  the  Heresiarch, 
Who  rouseth  up  all  Christendom 
Against  us  ; and  at  one  fell  blow 
Seeks  the  whole  Church  to  overthrow  ! 
Not  yet ; my  hour  is  not  yet  come. 

Yesterday  in  an  idle  mood. 

Hunting  with  others  in  the  wood, 

T did  not  pass  the  hours  in  vain. 

For  in  the  very  heart  of  all 
The  joyous  tumult  raised  around. 
Shouting  of  men,  and  baying  of  hound. 
And  the  bugle’s  blithe  and  cheery  call. 
And  echoes  answering  back  again, 
From  crags  of  the  distant  mountain 
chain,  — 

In  the  very  heart  of  this,  I found 
A mystery  of  grief  and  pain. 

It  was  an  image  of  the  power 
Of  Satan,  hunting  the  world  about. 
With  his  nets  and  traps  and  well- 
trained  dogs. 

His  bishops  and  priests  and  theo- 
logues. 

And  all  the  rest  of  the  rabble  rout. 
Seeking  whom  he  may  devour  ! 
Enough  have  I had  of  hunting  hares. 
Enough  of  these  hours  of  idle  mirth. 
Enough  of  nets  and  traps  and  gins  ! 
The  only  hunting  of  any  worth 
Is  where  I can  pierce  with  javelins 
The  cunning  foxes  and  wolves  and  bears. 
The  whole  iniquitous  troop  of  beasts. 
The  Roman  Pope  and  the  Roman 
priests 

That  sorely  infest  and  afflict  the  earth  ! 

Ye  nuns,  ye  singing  birds  of  the  air  ! 
The  fowler  hath  caught  you  in  his 
snare. 


And  keeps  you  safe  in  his  gilded  cage. 
Singing  the  song  that  never  tires, 

To  lure  down  others  from  their  nests  ; 
How  ye  flutter  and  beat  your  breasts. 
Warm  and  soft  with  young  desires. 
Against  the  cruel  pitiless  wires. 
Reclaiming  your  lost  heritage  ! 

Behold  ! a hand  unbars  the  door. 

Ye  shall  be  captives  held  no  more. 

The  Word  they  shall  perforce  let  stand. 
And  little  thanks  they  merit  ! 

For  He  is  with  us  in  the  land. 

With  gifts  of  his  own  Spirit  ! 

Though  they  take  our  life. 

Goods,  honors,  child  and  wife, 

Let  these  pass  away. 

Little  gain  have  they  ; 

The  Kingdom  still  remaineth  I 

Yea,  it  remaineth  forevermore. 
However  Satan  may  rage  and  roar. 
Though  often  he  whispers  in  my  ears  : 
What  if  thy  doctrines  false  should 
be? 

And  wrings  from  me  a bitter  sweat. 
Then  I put  him  to  flight  with  jeers. 
Saying : Saint  Satan  ! pray  for  me  ; 

If  thou  thinkest  I am  not  saved  yet  1 

And  my  mortal  foes  that  lie  in  wait 
In  every  avenue  and  gate  ! 

As  to  that  odious  monk  John  Tetzel 
Hawking  about  his  hollow  wares 
lake  a huckster  at  village  fairs, 

And  those  mischievous  fellows,  W’etzel, 
Campanus,  Carlstadt,  Martin  Cellarius, 
And  all  the  busy,  multifarious 
Heretics,  and  disciples  of  Arius, 
Half-learned,  dunce-bold,  dry  and  hard, 
They  are  not  worthy  of  my  regard, 
Poor  and  humble  as  I am. 

But  ah  ! Erasmus  of  Rotterdam, 

He  is  the  vilest  miscreant 

That  ever  walked  this  world  below  ! 

A Momus,  making  his  mock  and  mow 
At  papist  and  at  protestant. 

Sneering  at  St.  John  and  St.  Paul, 

At  God  and  Man,  at  one  and  all  ; 

And  yet  as  hollow  and  false  and  drear. 
As  a cracked  pitcher  to  the  ear, 

And  ever  growing  worse  and  worse  1 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 


129 


Whenever  I pray,  I pray  for  a curse 
On  Erasmus,  the  Insincere  ! 

Philip  Melancthon  ! thou  alone 
Faithful  among  the  faithless  known. 
Thee  I hail,  and  only  thee  ! 

Behold  the  record  of  us  three  ! 

Res  et  verba  Philippus^ 

Res  sine  verbis  Luthertis  ; 

. Erasmus  verba  sine  re  I 
My  Philip,  prayest  thou  for  me  ? 
Lifted  above  all  earthly  care. 

From  these  high  regions  of  the  air. 
Among  the  birds  that  day  and  night 
Upon  the  branches  of  tall  trees 
Sing  their  lauds  and  litanies, 


Praising  God  with  all  their  might. 
My  Philip,  unto  thee  I write. 

My  Philip  ! thou  who  knowest  best 
All  that  is  passing  in  this  breast ; 
The  spiritual  agonies. 

The  inward  deaths,  the  inward  hell. 
And  the  divine  new  births  as  well. 
That  surely  follow  after  these. 

As  after  winter  follows  spring  ; 

My  Philip,  in  the  night-time  sing 
This  song  of  the  Lord  I send  to  thee 
And  I will  sing  it  for  thy  sake. 

Until  our  answering  voices  make 
A glorious  antiphony. 

And  choral  chant  of  victory  I 


PART  THREE. 

THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


I.  JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


DRAMATIS 

PERSONS. 

John  Endicott 

. Governor, 

John  Endicott  . 

. his  son 

Richard  Bellingham  . 

. Deputy  Governor. 

John  Norton  . 

. Minister  of  the  Gospel. 

Edward  Butter  . 

. Treasurer. 

Walter  Merry 

. Tithing-nian. 

Nicholas  Ups  all  . 

. an  old  citizen. 

Samuel  Cole 

. Latidlord  of  the  Three  Mariners. 

Simon  Kempthorn  | 
Ralph  Goldsmith  ) 
Wenlock  Christison  \ 

, Sea-Captains 

Edith,  hzs  daughter  > . 

Edward  Wharton  ’ 

. Quakers. 

Assistants,  Halberdiers,  Marshal, 

The  Scene  is  in  Boston  in  the  year  1665. 

PROLOGUE. 


To-night  we  strive  to  read,  as  we  may 
best, 

This  city,  like  an  ancient  palimpsest ; 

And  bring  to  light,  upon  the  blotted 
page. 

The  mournful  record  of  an  earlier  age, 

That,  pale  and  half  effaced,  lies  hidden 
away 

Beneath  the  fresher  writing  of  to-day. 

Rise,  then,  O buried  city  that  hast 
been  ; 

Rise  up,  rebuilded  in  the  painted  scene, 

And  let  our  curious  eyes  behold  once 
more 

The  pointed  gable  and  the  pent-house 
door 

The  Meeting-house  with  leaden-latticed 
panes. 

The  narrow  thoroughfares,  the  crooked 
lanes ! 

Rise,  too,  ye  shapes  and  shadows  of 
the  Past, 

Rise  from  your  long-forgotten  graves 
at  last  ; 

Let  us  behold  your  faces,  let  us  hear 

The  words  ye  uttered  in  those  days  of 
fear  ! 

Revisit  your  familiar  haunts  again,  — 

The  scenes  of  triumph,  and  the  scenes 
of  pain. 

And  leave  the  footprints  of  your  bleed- 
ing feet 

Once  more  upon  the  pavement  of  the 
street ! 

Nor  let  the  Historian  blame  the  Poet 
here. 

If  he  perchance  misdate  the  day  or 
year. 

And  group  events  together,  by  his  art. 


That  in  the  Chronicles  lie  far  apart : 
For  as  the  double  stars,  though  sun- 
dered far, 

Seem  to  the  naked  eye  a single  star. 

So  facts  of  history,  at  a distance  seen. 
Into  one  common  point  of  light  convene. 

“Why  touch  upon  such  themes?” 
perhaps  some  friend 
May  ask,  incredulous ; “ and  to  what 
good  end? 

Why  drag  again  into  the  light  of  day 
The  errors  of  an  age  long  passed 
away  ? ” 

I answer:  “ For  the  lesson  that  they 
teach ; 

The  tolerance  of  opinion  and  of  speech. 
Hope,  Faith,  and  Charity  remain,  — 
these  three  ; 

And  greatest  of  them  all  is  Charity.” 

Let  us  remember,  if  these  words  be 
true. 

That  unto  all  men  Charity  is  due  ; 

Give  what  we  ask  ; and  pity,  while  we 
blame. 

Lest  we  become  copartners  in  the 
shame. 

Lest  we  condemn,  and  yet  ourselves 
partake. 

And  persecute  the  dead  for  conscience’ 
sake. 

Therefore  it  is  the  author  seeks  and 
strives 

To  represent  the  dead  as  in  their  lives. 
And  lets  at  times  his  characters  unfold 
Their  thoughts  in  their  own  language, 
strong  and  bold  ; 

He  only  asks  of  you  to  do  the  like ; 

To  hear  him  first,  and,  if  you  will,  then 
strike. 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I.  — Sunday  afternoon.  The 
interior  of  the  Meeting-house. 
On  the  pulpit,  att  hour-glass ; be- 
low, a box  for  contributions.  John 
Norton  in  the  pulpit.  Governor 
Endicott  in  a canopied  seat,  at- 
tended by  fotir  halberdiers.  The 
congregation,  singing. 

The  Lord  descended  from  above, 

And  bowed  the  heavens  high  ; 

And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast 
The  darkness  of  the  sky. 

On  Cherubim  and  Seraphim 
Right  royally  he  rode, 

And  on  the  wings  of  mighty  winds 
Came  flying  all  abroad. 

Norton  {rising,  and  turning  the 
hour-glass  on  the  pulpit).  I heard 
a great  voice  from  the  temple 
saying 

Unto  the  Seven  Angels,  Go  your  w'ays ; 

Pour  out  the  vials  of  the  wrath  of  God 

Upon  the  earth.  And  the  First  An- 
gel went 

And  poured  his  vial  on  the  earth  ; and 
straight 

There  fell  a noisome  and  a grievous 
sore 

On  them  which  had  the  birth-mark  of 
the  Beast, 

And  them  which  worshipped  and 
adored  his  image. 

On  us  hath  fallen  this  grievous  pesti- 
lence. 

There  is  a sense  of  horror  in  the  air; 

And  apparitions  of  things  horrible 

Are  seen  by  many.  From  the  sky 
above  us 

The  stars  fall ; and  beneath  us  the 
earth  quakes  I 


The  sound  of  drums  at  midnight  in  the 
air. 

The  sound  of  horsemen  riding  to  and 
fro. 

As  if  the  gates  of  the  invisible  world 

Were  opened,  and  the  dead  came  forth 
to  warn  us,  — 

All  these  are  omens  of  some  dire  dis- 
aster 

Impending  over  us,  and  soon  to  fall. 

Moreover,  in  the  language  of  the 
Prophet, 

Death  is  again  come  up  into  our  win- 
dows. 

To  cut  off  little  children  from  without. 

And  young  men  from  the  streets.  And 
in  the  midst 

Of  all  these  supernatural  threats  and 
W'arnings 

Doth  Heresy  uplift  its  horrid  head  ; 

A vision  of  Sin  more  awful  and  appall- 
ing 

Than  any  phantasm,  ghost,  or  appari- 
tion. 

As  arguing  and  portending  some  en- 
largement 

Of  the  mysterious  Power  of  Darkness  ! 

(Edith,  barefooted,  and  clad  in  sack- 
cloth, with  her  hair  hanging  loose 
upon  hei  shotclders,  walks  slowly  up 
the  aisle,  followed  by  W harton  and 
other  Quakers.  The  congregation 
starts  up  in  confusion.) 

Edith  {to  Norton,  raising  her  hand). 
Peace  ! 

Norton.  Anathema  maranatha  ! 

The  Lord  cometh  ! 

Edith.  Yea,  verily  he  cometh,  and 
shall  judge 

The  shepherds  of  Israel,  who  do  feed 
themselves, 


THE  NEIV-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


And  leave  their  flocks  to  eat  what  they 
have  trodden 

Beneath  their  feet. 

Norton.  Be  silent,  babbling  woman  ! 

St.  Paul  commands  all  women  to  keep 
silence 

Within  the  churches. 

' Edith.  Yet  the  women  prayed 

And  prophesied  at  Corinth  in  his  day  ; 

And,  among  those  on  whom  the  fiery 
tongues 

Of  Pentecost  descended,  some  were 
women  ! 

Norton.  The  Elders  of  the  Church- 
es, by  our  law, 

Alone  have  power  to  open  the  doors  of 
speech 

And  silence  in  the  Assembly.  I com- 
mand you ! 

Edith.  The  law  of  God  is  greater 
than  your  laws  ! 

Ye  build  your  church  with  blood,  your 
town  with  crime  ; 

The  heads  thereof  give  judgment  for 
reward ; 

The  priests  thereof  teach  only  for  their 
hire  ; 

Your  laws  condemn  the  innocent  to 
death  ; 

And  against  this  I bear  my  testimony  ! 

Norton.  What  testimony  ? 

Edith.  That  of  the  Holy  Spirit, 

Which,  as  your  Calvin  says,  surpasseth 
reason. 

Norton.  The  laborer  is  worthy  of 
his  hire. 

Edith.  Yet  our  great  Master  did 
not  teach  for  hire, 

And  the  Apostles  without  purse  or  scrip 

Went  forth  to  do  his  work.  Behold 
this  box 

Beneath  thy  pulpit.  Is  it  for  the  poor? 

Thou  canst  not  answer.  It  is  for  the 
Priest ; 

And  against  this  I bear  my  testimony. 

Norton.  Away  with  all  these  Here- 
tics and  Quakers  ! 

Quakers,  forsooth  ! Because  a quak- 
ing fell 

On  Daniel,  at  beholding  of  the  Vision, 

Must  ye  needs  shake  and  quake  ? Be- 
cause Isaiah 

Went  stripped  and  barefoot,  must  ye 
wail  and  howl? 


Must  ye  go  stripped  and  naked  ? must 
ye  make 

A wailing  like  the  dragons,  and  a 
mourning 

As  of  the  owls  ? Ye  verify  the  adage 
That  Satan  is  God’s  ape  ! Away  with 
them  ! 

{Tumult.  The  Quakers  are  driven 
out  with  violence,  Edith  followhig 
slowly.  The  congregation  retires  in 
con/us  ion.) 

Thus  freely  do  the  Reprobates  com- 
mit 

Such  measure  of  iniquity  as  fits  them 
For  the  intended  measure  of  God’s 
wrath. 

And  even  in  violating  God’s  commands 
Are  they  fulfilling  the  divine  decree  ! 
The  will  of  man  is  but  an  instrument 
Disposed  and  predetermined  to  its 
action 

According  unto  the  decree  of  God, 
Being  as  much  subordinate  thereto 
As  is  the  axe  unto  the  hewer’s  hand  ! 
{He  descends from  the  pulpit,  and  joins 
Governor  Endicott,  who  comes 
forward  to  meet  him.) 

The  omens  and  the  wonders  of  the 
time. 

Famine,  and  fire,  and  shipwreck,  and 
disease. 

The  blast  of  corn,  the  death  of  our 
young  men. 

Our  sufferings  in  all  precious,  pleasant 
things. 

Are  manifestations  of  the  wrath  divine. 
Signs  of  God’s  controversy  with  New 
England. 

These  emissaries  of  the  Evil  One, 
These  servants  and  ambassadors  of 
Satan, 

Are  but  commissioned  executioners 
Of  God’s  vindictive  and  deserved  dis- 
pleasure. 

We  must  receive  them  as  the  Roman 
Bishop 

Once  received  Attila,  saying,  I rejoice 
You  have  come  safe,  whom  I esteem 
to  be 

The  scourge  of  God,  sent  to  chastise 
his  people. 

This  very  heresy,  perchance,  may  serve 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


The  purposes  of  God  to  some  good  eud. 
With  you  I leave  it  ; but  do  not  neglect 
The  holy  tactics  of  the  civil  sword. 

Endicott.  And  what  more  can  be 
done? 

Norton.  The  hand  that  cut 

The  Red  Cross  from  the  colors  of  the 
king 

Can  cut  the  red  heart  from  this  heresy. 
Fear  not.  All  blasphemies  immedi- 
ate 

And  heresies  turbulent  must  be  sup- 
pressed 

By  civil  power. 

Endicott.  But  in  what  way  sup- 
pressed ? 

Norton.  The  Book  of  Deuteronomy 
declares 

That  if  thy  son,  thy  daughter,  or  thy 
wife. 

Ay,  or  the  friend  which  is  as  thine  own 
soul, 

Entice  thee  secretly,  and  say  to  thee, 
Let  us  serve  other  gods,  then  shall 
thine  eye 

Not  pity  him,  but  thou  shalt  surely 
kill  him. 

And  thine  own  hand  shall  be  the  first 
upon  him 
To  slay  him. 

Endicott.  Four  already  have  been 
slain  ; 

And  others  banished  upon  pain  of 
death. 

But  they  come  back  again  to  meet 
their  doom. 

Bringing  the  linen  for  their  winding- 
sheets. 

We  must  not  go  too  far.  In  truth,  I 
shrink 

From  shedding  of  more  blood.  The 
people  murmur 
At  our  severity. 

Norton.  Then  let  them  murmur  ! 
Truth  is  relentless ! justice  never 
wavers  ; 

The  greatest  firmness  is  the  greatest 
mercy ; 

The  noble  order  of  the  Magistracy 
Cometh  immediately  from  God,  and 
yet 

This  noble  order  of  the  Magistracy 
Is  by  these  Heretics  despised  and  out- 
raged. 


141 

Endicott.  To-night  they  sleep  in 
prison.  If  they  die. 

They  cannot  say  that  we  have  caused 
their  death. 

We  do  but  guard  the  passage,  with  the 
sword 

Pointed  towards  them ; if  they  dash 
upon  it. 

Their  blood  will  be  on  their  own  heads, 
not  ours. 

Norton.  Enough,  I ask  no  more. 
My  predecessor 

Coped  only  with  the  milder  heresies 
Of  Antinomians  and  of  Anabaptists. 
He  was  not  born  to  wrestle  with  these 
fiends. 

Chrysostom  in  his  pulpit  : Augustine 
In  disputation  : Timothy  in  his  house  ! 
The  lantern  of  St.  Botolph’s  ceased  to 
burn 

When  from  the  portals  of  that  church 
he  came 

To  be  a burning  and  a shining  light 
Here  in  the  wilderness.  And,  as  he 
lay 

On  his  death-bed,  he  saw  me  in  a 
vision 

Ride  on  a snow-white  horse  into  this 
town. 

His  vision  was  prophetic  ; thus  I came, 
A terror  to  the  impenitent,  and  Death 
On  the  pale  horse  of  the  Apocalypse 
To  all  the  accursed  race  of  Heretics  ! 

\_Exeunt. 

Scene  II.  — A street.  On  one  side, 
Nicholas  Upsall’s  on  the 

other,  Walter  Merry’s,  with  a 
flock  of  pigeons  on  the  roof.  Up- 
SALL  seated  in  the  porch  of  his 
house. 

Upsall.  O day  of  rest  ! How  beau- 
tiful, how  fair. 

How  welcome  to  the  weary  and  the  old  ! 
Day  of  the  Lord  ! and  truce  to  earthly 
cares  ! 

pay  of  the  Lord,  as  all  our  days  should 
be  ! 

Ah,  why  will  man  by  his  austerities 
Shut  out  the  blessed  sunshine  and  the 
light. 

And  make  of  thee  a dungeon  of  de- 
spair ! 


142 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


Walter  Merry  {entering,  and  look- 
ing round  him).  All  silent  as  a 
graveyard  ! No  one  stirring  ; 

No  footfall  in  the  street,  no  sound  of 
voices  ! 

By  righteous  punishment  and  persever- 
ance, 

And  perseverance  in  that  punishment. 

At  last  I ’ve  brought  this  contumacious 
town 

To  strict  observance  of  the  Sabbath 
day. 

Those  wanton  gospellers,  the  pigeons 
yonder, 

Are  now  the  only  Sabbath-breakers 
left. 

I cannot  put  them  down.  As  if  to 
taunt  me, 

They  gather  every  Sabbath  afternoon 

In  noisy  congregation  on  my  roof. 

Billing  and  cooing.  Whir  ! take  that, 
ye  Quakers. 

( Throws  a stone  at  the  pigeons.  Sees 
Upsall.) 

Ah  ! Master  Nicholas  ! 

Upsall.  Good  afternoon. 

Dear  neighbor  Walter.  • 

Merry.  Master  Nicholas, 

You  have  to-day  withdrawn  yourself 
from  meeting. 

upsall.  Yea,  I have  chosen  rather 
to  worship  God 

Sitting  in  silence  here  at  my  own 
door. 

Merry.  Worship  the  Devil ! You 
this  day  have  broken 

Three  of  our  strictest  laws.  First,  by 
abstaining 

From  public  worship.  Secondly,  by 
walking 

Profanely  on  the  Sabbath. 

Upsall.  _ _ _ Not  one  step. 

I have  been  sitting  still  here,  seeing 
the  pigeons 

Feed  in  the  street  and  fly  about  the 
roofs. 

Merry.  You  have  been  in  the  street 
with  other  intent 

Than  going  to  and  from  the  Meeting- 
house. 

And,  thirdly,  you  are  harboring  Qua- 
kers here. 

I am  amazed  I 


Upsall.  Men  sometimes,  it  is  said, 
Entertain  angels  unawares. 

Merry.  Nice  angels  ! 

Angels  in  broad-brimmed  hats  and 
russet  cloaks, 

The  color  of  the  Devil’s  nutting-bag  ! 
They  came 

Into  the  Meeting-house  this  afternoon 
More  in  the  shape  of  devils  than  of 
angels  ; 

The  women  screamed  and  fainted  ; 
and  the  boys 

Made  such  an  uproar  in  the  gallery 
I could  not  keep  them  quiet. 

Upsall.  _ Neighbor  Walter, 
Your  persecution  is  of  no  avail. 

Merry.  ’T  is  prosecution,  as  the 
Governor  says. 

Not  persecution. 

Upsall.  Well,  your  prosecution  ; 
Your  hangings  do  no  good. 

Merry.  The  reason  is. 

We  do  not  hang  enough.  But,  mark 
my  words. 

We’ll  scour  them  ; yea,  I warrant  ye, 
we  ’ll  scour  them  ! 

And  now  go  in  and  entertain  your  an- 
gels, 

And  don’t  be  seen  here  in  the  street 
again 

Till  after  sundown  ! — There  they  are 
again  ! 

{Exit  Upsall.  Merry  throws  an- 
other stone  at  the  pigeons,  and  then 
goes  into  his  house.) 

Scene  III.  — A room  in  U psall’s 
house.  Night.  Edith,  Wharton, 
and  other  Quakers,  seated  at  a table. 
Upsall  seated  near  them.  Sev- 
eral books  on  the  table. 

•Wharton.  William  and  Marmaduke, 
our  martyred  brothers. 

Sleep  in  untimely  graves,  if  aught  un- 
timely 

Can  find  place  in  the  providence  of 
God, 

Where  nothing  comes  too  early  or  too 
late. 

I saw  their  noble  death.  They  to  the 
scaffold 

Walked  hand  in  hand.  Two  hundred 
armed  men 


yoHN  ENDicorr. 


And  many  horsemen  guarded  them, 
for  fear 

Of  rescue  by  the  crowd,  whose  hearts 
were  stirred. 

Edith.  O holy  martyrs  ! 

Wharton.  When  they  tried  to  speak. 
Their  voices  by  the  roll  of  drums  were 
drowned. 

When  they  were  dead  they  still  looked 
fresh  and  fair. 

The  terror  of  death  was  not  upon  their 
faces. 

Our  sister  Mary,  likewise,  the  meek 
woman. 

Has  passed  through  martyrdom  to  her 
reward  ; 

Exclaiming,  as  they  led  her  to  her 
death, 

“ These  many  days  I ’ve  been  in  Para- 
dise.” 

And,  when  she  died.  Priest  Wilson 
threw  the  hangman 
His  handkerchief,  to  cover  the  pale 
face 

He  dared  not  look  upon. 

Edith.  As  persecuted, 

Yet  not  forsaken ; as  unknown,  yet 
known ; 

As  dying,  and  behold  we  are  alive  ; 

As  sorrowful,  and  yet  rejoicing  alway ; 
As  having  nothing,  yet  possessing  all  ! 

Wharton.  And  Leddra,  too,  is  dead. 
But  from  his  prison, 

The  day  before  his  death,  he  sent 
these  words 

Unto  the  little  flock  of  Christ : “ What- 
ever 

May  come  upon  the  followers  of  the 
Light,  — 

Distress,  affliction,  famine,  nakedness. 
Or  perils  in  the  city  or  the  sea. 

Or  persecution,  or  even  death  itself,  — 
I am  persuaded  that  God’s  armor  of 

As  it  is  loved  and  lived  in,  will  pre- 
serve you. 

Yea,  death  itself;  through  which  you 
will  find  entrance 

Into  the  pleasant  pastures  of  the  fold. 
Where  you  shall  feed  forever  as  the 
herds 

That  roam  at  large  in  the  low  valleys 
of  Achor. 

And  as  the  flowing  of  the  ocean  fills 


M3 

Each  creek  and  branch  thereof,  and 
then  retires. 

Leaving  behind  a sweet  and  whole- 
some savor : 

So  doth  the  virtue  and  the  life  of  God 

Flow  evermore  into  the  hearts  of  those 

Whom  he  hath  made  partakers  of  his 
nature ; 

And,  when  it  but  withdraws  itself  a 
little. 

Leaves  a sweet  savor  after  it,  that 
many 

Can  say  they  are  made  clean  by  every 
word 

That  he  hath  spoken  to  them  in  their 
silence.” 

Edith  {rising,  and  breakhig  into  a 
kind  of  chant).  Truly  we  do  but 
grope  here  in  the  dark. 

Near  the  partition-wall  of  Life  and 
Death, 

At  every  moment  dreading  or  desiring 

To  lay  our  hands  upon  the  unseen  door ! 

Let  us,  then,  labor  for  an  inward  still- 
ness, — 

An  inward  stillness  and  an  inward  heal- 
ing ; 

That  perfect  silence  where  the  lips  and 
heart 

Are  still,  and  we  no  longer  entertain  ^ 

Our  own  imperfect  thoughts  and  vain 
opinions. 

But  God  alone  speaks  in  us,  and  we 
wait 

In  singleness  of  heart,  that  we  may 
know 

His  will,  and  in  the  silence  of  our 
spirits. 

That  we  may  do  His  will,  and  do  that 
only  ! 

(A  long  pause,  interrupted  by  the 
sound  of  a drum  approaching ; 
then  shouts  in  the  street,  and  a 
loud  knocking  at  the  door.) 

Marshal.  Within  there  ! Open  the 
door  ! 

Merry.  Will  no  one  answer  ? 

Marshal.  In  the  King’s  name  ! 
Within  there  ! 

Merry.  Open  the  door  ! 

Upsctll  {from  the  window).  It  is 
not  barred.  Come  in.  Nothing 
prevents  you. 


144 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


The  poor  man’s  door  is  ever  on  the 
latch. 

He  needs  no  bolt  nor  bar  to  shut  out 
thieves  ; 

He  fears  no  enemies,  and  has  no 
friends 

Importunate  enough  to  turn  the  key 
upon  them ! 

{Enter ]o-aT<i  Endicott,  the  Marshal, 
Merry,  and  a crowd.  Seeing  the 
Qiiakers  silent  and  unmoved,  they 
pause,  awe-struck.  Endicott  oppo- 
site Edith.) 

Marshal.  In  the  King’s  name  do  I 
arrest  you  all ! 

Away  with  them  to  prison.  Master 
Upsall,_ 

You  are  again  discovered  harboring 
here 

These  ranters  and  disturbers  of  the 
peace. 

You  know  the  law. 

Upsall.  I know  it,  and  am  ready 

To  suffer  yet  again  its  penalties. 

Edith  (to  Endicott).  Why  dost  thou 
persecute  me,  Saul  of  Tarsus? 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I.  — John  Endicott’s  room. 

Early  morning. 

John  Endicott.  “ Why  dost  thou 
persecute  me,  Saul  of  Tarsus?” 

All  night  these  words  were  ringing  in 
mine  ears  ! 

A sorrowful  sweet  face  ; a look  that 
pierced  me 

With  meek  reproach  ; a voice  of  resig- 
nation 

That  had  a life  of  suffering  in  its  tone ; 

And  that  was  all ! And  yet  I could  not 
sleep, 

Or,  when  I slept,  I dreamed  that  awful 
dream  ! 

I stood  beneath  the  elm-tree  on  the 
Common 

On  which  the  Quakers  have  been 
hanged,  and  heard 

A voice,  not  hers,  that  cried  amid  the 
darkness. 


“ This  is  Aceldama,  the  field  of  blood  ! 
I will  have  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice ! ” 
{Ope?is  the  window,  and  looks  out.) 
The  sun  is  up  already ; and  my  heart 
Sickens  and  sinks  within  me  when  I 
think 

How  many  tragedies  will  be  enacted 
Before  his  setting.  As  the  earth  rolls 
round. 

It  seems  to  me  a huge  Ixion’s  wheel. 
Upon  whose  whirling  spokes  we  are 
bound  fast,  ' 

And  must  go.  with  it ! Ah,  how  bright 
the  sun 

Strikes  on  the  sea  and  on  the  masts  of 
vessels, 

That  are  uplifted  in  the  morning  air, 
Like  crosses  of  some  peaceable  crusade  ! 
It  makes  me  long  to  sail  for  lands  un- 
known. 

No  matter  whither  ! Under  me,  in 
shadow. 

Gloomy  and  narrow  lies  the  little  town. 
Still  sleeping,  but  to  wake  and  toil 
awhile. 

Then  sleep  again.  How  dismal  looks 
the  prison. 

How  grim  and  sombre  in  the  sunless 
street,  — 

The  prison  where  she  sleeps,  or  wakes 
and  waits 

For  what  I dare  not  think  of,  — death, 
perhaps ! 

A word  that  has  been  said  may  be  un- 
said : 

It  is  but  air.  But  when  a deed  is 
done 

It  cannot  be  undone,  nor  can  our 
thoughts 

Reach  out  to  all  the  mischiefs  that 
may  follow. 

’T  is  time  for  morning  prayers.  I will 
go  down. 

My  father,  though  severe,  is  kind  and 
j list ; 

And  when  his  heart  is  tender  with  de- 
votion, — 

When  from  his  lips  have  fallen  the 
words,  “ Forgive  us 
As  we  forgive,”  — then  will  I intercede 
For  these  poor  people,  and  perhaps 
may  save  them. 

{Exit. 


JOHN  ENDICOTT, 


Scene  II.  — Dock  Sqtiare-  On  one 
side,  the  tavern  of  the  Three  Mari- 
ners.  In  the  background,  a quaint 
building  with  gables  ; and,  beyojidit, 
wharves  and  shipping.  Captain 
Kempthorn  and  others  seated  at  a 
table  before  the  door.  Samuel  Cole 
standing  near  them. 

Kempthorn.  Come,  drink  about ! 
Remember  Parson  Melham, 

I nd  bless  the  man  who  first  invented 
flip  ! 

( They  drink.') 

Cole.  Pray,  Master  Kempthorn, 
where  were  you  last  night  ? 
Kempthorn.  On  board  the  Swallow, 
Simon  Kempthorn,  master, 

Jp  for  Barbadoes,  and  the  Windward 
Islands. 

Cole.  The  town  was  in  a tumult. 
Kempthorn.  And  for  what  ? 

Cole.  Your  Quakers  were  arrested. 
Kempthorn.  How  my  Quakers? 
Cole.  Those  you  brought  in  your 
vessel  from  Barbadoes. 

They  made  an  uproar  in  the  Meeting- 
house 

Yesterday,  and  they  ’re  now  in  prison 
for  it. 

I owe  you  little  thanks  for  bringing 
them 

To  the  Three  Mariners. 

Kempthorn.  They  have 

not  harmed  you. 

I tell  you,  Goodman  Cole,  that  Quaker 
girl 

Is  precious  as  a sea-bream’s  eye.  I 
tell  you 

It  was  a lucky  day  when  first  she  set 

Her  little  foot  upon  the  Swallow’s 
deck. 

Bringing  good  luck,  fair  winds,  and 
pleasant  weather. 

Cole.  I am  a law-abiding  citizen  ; 

I have  a seat  in  the  new  Meeting- 
house, 

A cow-right  on  the  Common  ; and,  be- 
sides, 

Am  corporal  in  the  Great  Artillery. 

I rid  me  of  the  vagabonds  at  once. 
Kempthorn.  Why  should  you,  not 
have  Quakers  at  your  tavern 

If  you  have  fiddlers  ? 

lO 


145 

Cole.  Never  ! never  ! never  ! 

If  you  want  fiddling  you  must  go  else- 
where. 

To  the  Green  Dragon  and  the  Admiral 
Vernon, 

And  other  such  disreputable  places. 

But  the  Three  Mariners  is  an  orderly 
house. 

Most  orderly,  quiet,  and  respectable. 

Lord  Leigh  said  he  could  be  as  quiet 
here 

As  at  the  Governor’s.  And  have  I 
not 

King  Charles’s  Twelve  Good  Rules, 
all  framed  and  glazed. 

Hanging  in  my  best  parlor  ? 
Kempthorn-  Here ’s  a health 

To  good  King  Charles.  Will  you  not 
drink  the  King  ? 

Then  drink  confusion  to  old  Parson 
Palmer. 

Cole.  And  who  is  Parson  Palmer? 
I don’t  know  him. 

Kempthorn.  He  had  his  cellar  un- 
derneath his  pulpit, 

And  so  preached  o’er  his  liquor,  just  as 
you  do. 

(A  drum  within.) 

Cole.  Here  comes  the  Marshal. 
Merry  {within).  Make  room  for 
the  Marshal. 

Kempthorn.  How  pompous  and  im- 
posing he  appears ! 

His  great  buif  doublet  bellying  like  a 
mainsail. 

And  all  his  streamers  fluttering  in  the 
wind. 

What  holds  he  in  his  hand  ? 

Cole.  A Proclamation. 

{Enter  the  Marshal,  with  a proclama- 
tion; Merry,  with  a halberd. 
They  are  preceded  by  a drummer, 
and followed  by  the  hangman,  with 
an  armful  of  books,  and  a crowd  of 
people,  amottg  whom  are  Upsall 
and  John  Endicott.  A pile  is 
*}nade  of  the  books.) 

Merry.  Silence,  the  drum ! Good 
citizens,  attend 

To  the  new  laws  enacted  by  the  Court. 
Maj’shal {reads)  “ Whereas  a cursed 
sect  of  Heretics 


146  THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


Has  lately  risen,  commonly  called 
Quakers, 

Who  take  upon  themselves  to  be  com- 
missioned 

Immediately  of  God,  and  furthermore 
Infallibly  assisted  by  the  Spirit 
To  write  and  utter  blasphemous  opin- 
ions. 

Despising  Government  and  the  order 
of  God 

In  Church  and  Commonwealth,  and 
speaking  evil 

Of  Dignities,  reproaching  and  reviling 
The  Magistrates  and  Ministers,  and 
seeking 

To  turn  the  people  from  their  faith, 
and  thus 

Gain  proselytes  to  their  pernicious 
ways ; — 

This  Court,  considering^  the  premises, 
And  to  prevent  like  mischief  as  is 
wrought 

By  their  means  in  our  land,  doth  here- 
by order. 

That  whatsoever  master  or  commander 
Of  any  ship,  bark,  pink,  or  catch  shall 
bring 

To  any  roadstead,  harbor,  creek,  or 
cove 

Within  this  Jurisdiction  any  Quakers, 
Or  other  blasphemous  Heretics,  shall 
pay 

Unto  the  Treasurer  of  the  Common- 
wealth 

One  hundred  pounds,  and  for  default 
thereof 

Be  put  in  prison,  and  continue  there 
Till  the  said  sum  be  satisfied  and  paid.” 

Cole.  Now,  Simon  Kempthorn,  what 
say  you  to  that  ? 

Kempthorn.  I pray  you,  Cole,  lend 
me  a hundred  pound  ! 

Marshal  {reads).  _ ” If  any  .one  with- 
in this  Jurisdiction 

Shall  henceforth  entertain,  or  shall 
conceal 

Quakers,  or  other  blasphemous  Here- 
tics, 

Knowing  them  so  to  be,  every  such 
person 

Shall  forfeit  to  the  country  forty  shil- 
lings 

For  each  hour’s  entertainment  or  con- 
cealment. 


And  shall  be  sent  to  prison,  as  afore- 
said, 

Until  the  forfeiture  be  wholly  paid.” 
{Mtirmurs  in  the  crowd.) 

Kempthorn.  Now,  Goodman  Cole, 
I think  your  turn  has  come  ! 

Cole.  Knowing  them  so  to  be  ! 

Kempthorn.  At  forty  shillings 

The  hour,  your  fine  will  be  some  forty 
pound  ! 

Cole.  Knowing  them  so  to  be  ! 
That  is  the  law. 

Marshal  (reads).  “ And  it  is  further 
ordered  and  enacted. 

If  any  Quaker  or  Quakers  shall  pre- 
sume 

To  come  henceforth  into  this  Jurisdic- 
tion, 

Every  male  Quaker  for  the  first  offence 

Shall  have  one  ear  cut  off ; and  shall 
be  kept 

At  labor  in  the  Workhouse,  till  such 
time 

As  he  be  sent  away  at  his  own  charge. 

And  for  the  repetition  of  the  offence 

Shall  have  his  other  ear  cut  off,  and 
then 

Be  branded  in  the  palm  of  his  right 
hand. 

And  every  woman  Quaker  shall  be 
whipt 

Severely  in  three  towns ; and  every 
Quaker, 

Or  he  or  she,  that  shall  for  a third 
time 

Herein  again  offend,  shall  have  their 
tongues 

Bored  through  with  a hot  iron,  and 
shall  be 

Sentenced  to  Banishment  on  pain  of 
Death.” 

(Loud  murmurs.  The  voice  of 
Christison  in  the  crowd.) 

O patience  of  the  Lord  ! How  long, 
how  long. 

Ere  Thou  avenge  the  blood  of  Thine 
Elect  ? 

Merry.  Silence,  there,  silence  ! Do 
not  break  the  peace  ! 

Marshal  (reads).  “ Every  inhabi- 
tant of  this  Jurisdiction 

Who  shall  defend  the  horrible  opinions 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


147 


Of  Quakers,  by  denying  due  respect 
To  equals  and  superiors,  and  withdraw- 
ing 

From  Church  Assemblies,  and  thereby 
approving 

The  abusive  and  destructive  practices 
Of  this  accursed  sect,  in  opposition 
To  all  the  orthodox  received  opinions 
Of  godly  men,  shall  be  forthwith  com- 
mitted 

Unto  close  prison  for  one  month  ; and 
then 

Refusing  to  retract  and  to  reform 
The  opinions  as  aforesaid,  he  shall  be 
Sentenced  to  Banishment  on  pain  of 
Death. 

By  the  Court.  Edward  Rawson,  Sec- 
retary.” 

Now,  hangman,  do  your  duty.  Burn 
those  books. 

{Loud  murmtirs  in  the  crowd.  The 
pile  of  books  is  lighted.) 

Upsall.  I testify  against  these  cruel 
laws  ! 

Forerunners  are  they  of  some  judgment 
on  us ; 

And,  in  the  love  and  tenderness  I bear 
Unto  this  town  and  people,  I beseech 
you, 

0 Magistrates,  take  heed,  lest  ye  be 

found 

As  fighters  against  God  ! 

John  Endicott  {taking  UpsaWs 
hand)  Upsall,  I thank  you 
For  speaking  words  such  as  some 
younger  man, 

1 or  another,  should  have  said  before 

you. 

Such  laws  as  these  are  cruel  and  op- 
pressive : 

A blot  on  this  fair  town,  and  a disgrace 
To  any  Christian  people. 

Merry  {aside  listening  behind  them). 
Here ’s  sedition  ! 

I never  thought  that  any  good  would 
come 

Of  this  young  popinjay,  with  his  long 
hair 

And  his  great  boots,  fit  only  for  the 
Russians 

Or  barbarous  Indians,  as  his  father  says  ! 

The  E oice.  W oe  to  the  bloody  town  ! 
And  rightfully 


Men  call  it  the  Lost  Town  ! The 
blood  of  Abel 

Cries  from  the  ground,  and  at  the  final 
judgment 

The  Lord  will  say,  “ Cain,  Cain  ! 
where  is  thy  brother?  ” 

Merry.  Silence  there  in  the  crowd  ! 

Upsall  {aside).  ’T  is  Christison  ! 

The  Voice.  O foolish  people,  ye 
that  think  to  burn 

And  to  consume  the  truth  of  God,  I tell 
you 

That  every  flame  is  a loud  tongue  of 
fire 

To  publish  it  abroad  to  all  the  world 
Louder  than  tongues  of  men  ! 

Kernpthorn  {springing  to  his  feet). 
Well  said,  my  hearty  ! 

There ’s  a brave  fellow ! There  *s  a 
man  of  pluck  ! 

A man  who ’s  not  afraid  to  say  his  say, 
Though  a whole  town ’s  against  him. 
Rain,  rain,  rain, 

Bones  of  St.  Botolph,  and  put  out  this 
fire! 

{The  drum  beats.  Exeunt  all  but 

Merry,  Kempthorn,  and  Cole.) 

Merry.  And  now  that  matter ’s 
ended,  Goodman  Cole, 

Fetch  me  a mug  of  ale,  your  strongest 
ale. 

Kempthorn{sitting down).  And  me 
another  mug  of  flip  ; and  put 
Two  gills  of  brandy  in  it. 

[Exit  Cole. 

Merry.  No;  no  more. 

Not  a drop  more,  I say.  You ’ve  had 
enough. 

Kempthorn.  And  who  are  you,  sir  ? 

Merry.  I’m  a Tithing-man, 

And  Merry  is  my  name. 

Kempthorn.  A merry  name  I 

I like  it ; and  I ’ll  drink  your  merry 
health 

Till  all  is  blue. 

Merry.  And  then  you  will  be  clapped 
Into  the  stocks,  with  the  red  letter  D 
Hung  round  about  your  neck  for  drunk- 
enness. 

You’re  a free-drinker,  — yes,  and  a free- 
thinker ! 

Kempthorn.  And  you  are  Andrew 
Merry,  or  Merry  Andrew. 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


Merry.  My  name  is  Walter  Merry, 
and  not  Andrew. 

Kejnpthorn.  Andrew  or  Walter, 
you  ’re  a merry  fellow ; 

I ’ll  swear  to  that. 

Merry.  No  swearing,  let  me  tell  you. 

The  other  day  one  Shorthose  had  his 
tongue 

Put  into  a cleft  stick  for  profane  swear- 
ing. 

(Cole  brings  the  ale.) 

Kempthorn.  Well,  where ’s  my  flip  ? 
As  sure  as  my  name ’s  Kemp- 
thorn — 

Merry.  Is  your  name  Kempthorn? 

Kempthorn.  That ’s  the  name  I go 
by. 

Merry.  What,  Captain  Simon  Kemp- 
thorn of  the  Swallow? 

Kempthorn.  No  other. 

Merry  {pouching  him  on  the  shoul- 
der). Then  you  ’re  wanted.  I 
arrest  you 

In  the  King’s  name. 

Kempthorn.  ■ And  where ’s  your 
warrant  ? 

Merry  {unfolding  a paper,  and 
reading).  Here. 

Listen  to  me.  “ Hereby  you  are  re- 
quired. 

In  the  King’s  name,  to  apprehend  the 
body 

Of  Simon  Kempthorn,  mariner,  and  him 

Safely  to  bring  before  me,  there  to  an- 
swer 

All  such  objections  as  are  laid  to  him. 

Touching  the  Quakers*.”  Signed,  John 
Endicott. 

Ke7npthorn.  Has  it  the  Governor’s 
seal  ? 

Merry.  Ay,  here  it  is. 

Kempthorn.  Death’s  head  and  cross- 
bones.  That ’s  a pirate’s  flag  ! 

Merry.  Beware  how  you  revile  the 
Magistrates ; 

You  may  be  whipped  for  that. 

Kempthorn.  Then  mum ’s  the  word. 

{Exeunt  Merry  and  Kempthorn.) 

Cole.  There ’s  mischief  brewing  ! 
Sure,  there ’s  mischief  brewing  ! 

I feel  like  Master  Josselyn  when  he 
found 


The  hornet’s  nest,  and  thought  it  some 
strange  fruit. 

Until  the  seeds  came  out,  and  then  he 
dropped  it.  {Exit. 


Scene  III.  — A room  in  the  Gover- 
nor's house.  Enter  Governor  En- 
dicott and  Merry. 

Endicott.  My  son,  you  say? 

Merry.  Your  Worship’s  eldest  son. 

Endicott.  .Speaking against  the  laws? 

Merry.  Ay,  worshipful  sir. 

Endicott.  And  in  the  public  market- 
place? 

Merry.  I saw  him 

With  my  own  eyes,  heard  him  with  my 
own  ears. 

Endicott.  Impossible  ! 

Merry.  He  stood 

there  in  the  crowd 

With  Nicholas  Upsall,  when  the  laws 
were  read 

To-day  against  the  Quakers,  and  I 
heard  him 

Denounce  and  vilipend  them  as  un- 
just, _ 

As  cruel,  wicked,  and  abominable. 

Endicott.  Ungrateful  son ! O God  ! 
thou  layest  upon  me 

A burden  heavier  than  I can  bear ! 

Surely  the  power  of  Satan  must  be 
great 

Upon  the  earth,  if  even  the  elect 

Are  thus  deceived  and  fall  away  from 
grace  ! 

Merry.  Worshipful  sir  ! I meant  no 
harm  — 

Endicott.  ’T  is  well. 

You’ve  done  your  duty,  though  you’ve 
done  it  roughly, 

And  every  word  you’ve  uttered  since 
you  came 

Has  stabbed  me  to  the  heart  ! 

Merry.  I do  beseech 

Your  Worship’s  pardon  I 

Endicott.  He  whom  I have  nurtured 

And  brought  up  in  the  reverence  of  the 
Lord  ! 

The  child  of  all  my  hopes  and  my  affec- 
tions ! 

He  upon  whom  I leaned  as  a sure 
staff 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


For  my  old  age ! It  is  God’s  chastise- 
ment 

For  leaning  upon  any  arm  but  His  ! 
Merry.  Your  Worship  ! — 
Endicott.  And  this  comes  from  hold- 
ing parley 

With  the  delusions  and  deceits  of  Satan. 

At  once,  forever,  must  they  be  crushed 
out, 

Or  all  the  land  will  reek  with  heresy  ! 

Pray,  have  you  any  children  ? 

Merry.  No,  not  any. 

Endicott.  Thank  God  for  that.  He 
has  delivered  you 

From  a great  care.  Enough  ; my  pri- 
vate griefs 

Too  long  have  kept  me  from  the  public 
service. 

{Exit  Merry.  Endicott  seats  him- 
self at  the  table  and  arranges  his 
papers.') 

The  hour  has  come  ; and  I am  eager  now 

To  sit  in  judgment  on  these  Heretics. 

(A  knock.) 

Come  in.  Who  is  it?  {iVot  looking  up.) 
John  Endicott.  It  is  I. 

Endicott  {restraining  himself).  Sit 
down  ! 

John  Endicott  {sitting  down).  I 
come  to  intercede  for  these  poor 
people 

Who  are  in  prison,  and  await  their  trial. 
Endicott.  It  is  of  them  I wish  to 
speak  with  you. 

I have  been  angry  with  you,  but  ’tis 
passed. 

For  when  I hear  your  footsteps  come  or 

. 

See  in  your  features  your  dead  mother’s 
face. 

And  in  your  voice  detect  some  tone  of 
hers. 

All  anger  vanishes,  and  I remember 

The  days  that  are  no  more,  and  come  no 
more. 

When  as  a child  you  sat  upon  my  knee, 

And  prattled  of  your  playthings,  and  the 
games 

You  played  among  the  pear-trees  in  the 
orchard  ! 

John  Endicott.  O,  let  the  memory 
of  my  noble  mother 


Plead  with  you  to  be  mild  and  merciful ! 
For  mercy  more  becomes  a Magistrate 
Than  the  vindictive  wrath  which  men 
call  justice  ! 

Endicott.  The  sin  of  heresy  is  a 
deadly  sin. 

’T  is  like  the  falling  of  the  snow,  whose 
crystals 

The  traveller  plays  with,  thoughtless  of 
his  danger. 

Until  he  sees  the  air  so  full  of  light 
That  it  is  dark  ; and  blindly  staggering 
onw'ard, 

Lost,  and  bewildered,  he  sits  down  to 
rest : 

There  falls  a pleasant  drowsiness  upon 
him. 

And  what  he  thinks  is  sleep,  alas ! is 
death. 

John  Endicott.  And  yet  who  is  there 
that  has  never  doubted  ? 

And,  doubting  and  believing,  has  not 
said, 

“ Lord,  I believe  ; help  thou  my  un- 
belief”? 

Endicott.  In  the  same  way  we  trifle 
with  our  doubts. 

Whose  shining  shapes  are  like  the  stars 
descending ; 

Until  at  last,  bewildered  and  dismayed. 
Blinded  by  that  which  seemed  to  give 
us  light. 

We  sink  to  sleep,  and  find  that  it  is 
death  {rising). 

Death  to  the  soul  through  all  eternity  ! 
Alas  that  I should  see  you  growing  up 
To  man’s  estate,  and  in  the  admonition 
And  nurture  of  the  Law,  to  find  you  now 
Pleading  for  Heretics  1 

John  Endicott  {rising).  In  the  sight 
of  God, 

Perhaps  all  men  are  Heretics.  Who 
dares 

To  say  that  he  alone  has  found  the 
truth  ? 

We  cannot  always  feel  and  think  and  act 
As  those  who  go  before  us.  Had  you 
done  so. 

You  would  not  now  be  here. 

Endicott.  Have  you  forgotten 

The  doom  of  Heretics,  and  the  fate  of 
those 

Who  aid  and  comfort  them?  Have 
you  forgotten 


THE  NEIV-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


That  In  the  market-place  this  very  day 
You  trampled  on  the  laws?  What 
right  have  you, 

An  inexperienced  and  untravelled 
youth, 

To  sit  in  judgment  here  upon  the  acts 
Of  older  men  and  wiser  than  yourself, 
Thus  stirring  up  sedition  in  the  streets, 
And  making  me  a byword  and  a jest  ? 
yohn  Endicott.  Words  of  an  inexpe- 
rienced youth  like  me 
Were  powerless  if  the  acts  of  older  men 
Went  not  before  them.  ’T  is  these 
laws  themselves 

Stir  up  sedition,  not  my  judgment  of 
them. 

Endicott.  Take  heed,  lest  I be  called, 
as  Brutus  was, 

Tobethejudgeofmyownson ! Begone ! 
When  you  are  tired  of  feeding  upon 
husks, 

Return  again  to  duty  and  submission. 
But  not  till  then. 

John  Endicott.  I hear  and  I obey  1 
[Exit. 

Endicott.  O happy,  happy  they  who 
have  no  children  1 

He ’s  gone  ! I hear  the  hall  door  shut 
behind  him. 

It  sends  a dismal  echo  through  my  heart. 
As  if  forever  it  had  closed  between  us. 
And  I should  look  upon  his  face  no 
more  ! 

O,  this  will  drag  me  down  into  my 
grave,  — 

To  that  eternal  resting-place  wherein 
Man  lieth  down,  and  riseth  not  again  ! 
Till  the  heavens  be  no  more  he  shall 
not  wake, 

Nor  be  roused  from  his  sleep  ; for  Thou 
dost  change 

His  countenance,  and  sendest  him 
away ! [Exit. 

ACT  III. 

Scene  I-  — The  Court  of  Assistants. 
Endicott,  Bellingham,  Ather- 
ton, and  other  magistrates.  Kemp- 
THORN,  Merry,  and  constables. 
Afterwards  Wharton,  Edith,  and 
Christison. 

Endicott.  Call  Captain  Simon 
Kempthorn. 


Merry.  Simon  Kempthorn, 

Come  to  the  bar  I 

(Kempthorn  comes  forward.') 

Endicott.  You  are  accused  of  bring- 

Into  this  Jurisdiction,  from  Barba- 
does, 

Some  persons  of  that  sort  and  sect  of 
people 

Known  by  the  name  of  Quakers,  and 
maintaining 

Most  dangerous  and  heretical  opin- 
ions ; 

Purposely  coming  here  to  propagate 

Their  heresies  and  errors ; bringing 
with  them 

And  spreading  sundry  books  here, 
which  contain 

Their  doctrines  most  corrupt  and 
blasphemous, 

And  contrary  to  the  truth  professed 
among  us. 

What  say  you  to  this  charge  ? 

Kempthorn.  I do  acknowledge. 

Among  the  passengers  on  board  the 
Swallow 

Were  certain  persons  saying  Thee  and 
Thou. 

They  seemed  a harmless  people,  most- 
ways  silent. 

Particularly  when  they  said  their 
prayers. 

Endicott.  Harmless  and  silent  as 
the  pestilence  ! 

You ’d  better  have  brought  the  fever  or 
the  plague 

Among  us  in  your  ship  ! Therefore, 
this  Court, 

For  preservation  of  the  Peace  and 
Truth, 

Hereby  commands  you  speedily  to 
transport. 

Or  cause  to  be  transported  speedily. 

The  aforesaid  persons  hence  unto  Bar- 
badoes. 

From  whence  they  came  ; you  paying 
all  the  charges 

Of  their  imprisonment. 

Kempthorn.  Worshipful  sir. 

No  ship  e’er  prospered  that  has  carried 
Quakers 

Against  their  will ! I knew  a vessel 
once  — 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


Endicott.  And  for  the  more  effec- 
tual performance 
Hereof  you  are  to  give  security 
In  bonds  amounting  to  one  hundred 
pounds. 

On  your  refusal,  you  will  be  committed 
To  prison  till  you  do  it. 

Kempthorn.  But  you  see 

I cannot  do  it.  The  law,  sir,  of  Bar- 
badoes 

Forbids  the  landing  Quakers  on  the 
island. 

Endicott.  Then  you  will  be  com- 
mitted. Who  comes  next? 

Merry.  There  is  another  charge 
against  the  Captain. 

Endicott.  What  is  it? 

Merry.  Profane  swear- 

ing, please  your  Worship. 

He  cursed  and  swore  from  Dock 
Square  to  the  Court-house. 

Endicott.  Then  let  him  stand  in 
the  pillory  for  one  hour. 

{Exit  Kempthorn  with  constable.) 
Who ’s  next? 

Merry.  The  Quakers. 

Etidicott.  Call  them. 

Merry.  Edward  Wharton, 

Come  to  the  bar  1 

Wharton.  Yea,  even  to  the  bench. 

Endicott.  Take  off  your  hat. 

Wharton.  My  hat  offendeth  not. 

If  it  offendeth  any,  let  him  take  it ; 

For  I shall  not  resist. 

Endicott.  Take  off  his  hat. 

Let  him  be  fined  ten  shillings  for  con- 
tempt. 

(Merry  takes  ^Wharton’s  hati) 

Wharton.  What  evil  have  I done? 

Endicott.  Your  hair ’s  too  long ; 

And  in  not  putting  off  your  hat  to  us 
You ’ve  disobeyed  and  broken  that 
commandment 

Which  sayeth  “ Honor  thy  father  and 
thy  mother.” 

Wharton.  John  Endicott,  thou  art 
become  too  proud ; 

And  "'ovest  him  who  putteth  off  the  hat. 
And  honoreth  thee  by  bowing  of  the 
body. 

And  sayeth  “Worshipful  sir!”  ’T  is 
time  for  thee 


151 

To  give  such  follies  over,  for  thou 
mayest 

Be  drawing  very  near  unto  thy  grave. 

Endicott.  Now,  sirrah,  leave  your 
canting.  Take  the  oath. 

Wharton.  Nay,  sirrah  me  no  sir- 
rahs  ! 

Endicott.  Will  j'ou  swear? 

Wharton.  Nay,  I will  not. 

Endicott.  You 

made  a great  disturbance 

And  uproar  yesterday  in  the  Meeting- 
house, 

Having  your  hat  on. 

Whafion.  I made  no  disturbance  ; 

For  peacefully  I stood,  like  other  peo- 
ple. 

I spake  no  words  ; moved  against  none 
my  hand  ; 

But  by  the  hair  they  haled  me  out,  and 
dashed 

Their  books  into  my  face. 

Endicott.  You,  Edward  Wharton, 

On  pain  of  death,  depart  this  Jurisdic- 
tion 

Within  ten  days.  Such  is  your  sen- 
tence. Go. 

Wharton.  John  Endicott,  it  had 
been  well  for  thee 

If  this  day’s  doings  thou  hadst  left  un- 
done. 

But,  banish  me  as  far  as  thou  hast 
power. 

Beyond  the  guard  and  presence  of  my 
God 

Thou  canst  not  banish  me  ! 

Endicott.  Depart  the  Court ; 

We  have  no  time  to  listen  to  your  bab- 
ble. 

Who ’s  next  ? {Exit  Wharton. 

Merry.  This  woman,  for  the  same 
offence. 

(Edith  comes  forward.) 

Endicott.  What  is  your  name  ? 

Edith.  ’T  is  to  the  world  unknown. 

But  written  in  the  Book  of  Life. 

Endicott.  Take  heed 

It  be  not  written  in  the  Book  of  Death  ! 

What  is  it? 

Edith.  Edith  Christison. 

Endicott  {with  eagerness).  The 
daughter 

Of  W enlock  Christison  ? 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


Edith.  I am  his  daughter. 

Endicott.  Your  father  hath  given 
us  trouble  many  times. 

A bold  man  and  a violent,  w'ho  sets 
At  naught  the  authority  of  our  Church 
and  State, 

And  is  in  banishment  on  pain  of  death. 
Where  are  you  living  ? 

Edith.  In  the  Lord. 

Endicott.  Make  answer 

Without  evasion.  Where? 

Edith.  My  outward  being 

Is  in  Barbadoes. 

Endicott.  Then  why  come  you  here  ? 

Edith.  I come  upon  an  errand  of 
the  Lord. 

Endicott.  ’T  is  not  the  business  of 
the  Lord  you  ’re  doing ; 

It  is  the  Devil’s.  Will  you  take  the 
oath  ? 

Give  her  the  Book. 

(Merry  offers  the  Book.) 

Edith.  You  offer  me  this  Book 
To  swear  on;  and  it  saith,  “ Swear  not 
at  all. 

Neither  by  heaven,  because  it  is  God’s 
Throne, 

Nor  by  the  earth,  because  it  is  his 
footstool  ! ” 

I dare  not  swear. 

Endicott.  You  dare  not?  Yet 
you  Quakers 

Deny  this  Book  of  Holy  Writ,  the 
Bible, 

To  be  the  Word  of  God. 

Edith  {reverentially).  Christ  is  the 
Word, 

The  everlasting  oath  of  God.  I dare 
not. 

Endicott.  You  own  yourself  a Quaker, 
— do  you  not  ? 

Edith.  I own  that  in  derision  and 
reproach 
I am  so  called. 

Endicott.  Then  you  deny  the  Scrip- 
ture 

To  be  the  rule  of  life. 

Edith.  Yea,  I believe 

The  Inner  Light,  and  not  the  Written 
Word, 

To  be  the  rule  of  life. 

Endicott.  And  you  deny 

That  the  Lord’s  Day  is  holy. 


Edith.  Every  day 

Is  the  Lord’s  Day.  It  runs  through 
all  our  lives. 

As  through  the  pages  of  the  Holy  Bible 
“ Thus  saith  the  Lord.” 

Endicott.  You  are  accused  of  making 
An  horrible  disturbance,  and  affrighting 
The  people  in  the  Meeting-house  on 
Sunday. 

What  answer  make  you? 

Edith.  I do  not  deny 

That  I was  present  in  your  Steeple- 
house 

On  the  First  Day ; but  I made  no  dis- 
turbance. 

Endicott.  Why  came  you  there  ? 

Edith.  Because  the  Lord  com- 
manded. 

His  word  was  in  my  heart,  a burning 
fire 

Shut  up  within  me  and  consuming 
me. 

And  I was  very  weary  with  forbearing  ; 
I could  not  stay. 

Endicott.  ’T  was  not  the  Lord  that 
sent  you  ; 

As  an  incarnate  devil  did  you  come  ! 

Edith.  On  the  First  Day,  when, 
seated  in  my  chamber, 

I heard  the  bells  toll,  calling  you  to- 
gether. 

The  sound  struck  at  my  life,  as  once  at 
his. 

The  holy  man,  our  Founder,  when  he 
heard 

The  far-off  bells  toll  in  the  Vale  of 
Beavor. 

It  sounded  like  a market  bell  to  call 
The  folk  together,  that  the  Priest 
might  set 

His  wares  to  sale.  And  the  Lord  said 
within  me, 

“ Thou  must  go  cry  aloud  against  that 
Idol, 

And  all  the  worshippers  thereof.”  I 
went 

Barefooted,  clad  in  sackcloth,  and  I 
stood 

And  listened  at  the  threshold ; and  I 
heard 

The  praying  and  the  singing  and  the 
preaching. 

Which  were  but  outward  forms,  and 
without  power. 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


Then  rose  a cry  within  me,  and  my 
heart 

Was  filled  with  admonitions  and  re- 
proofs. 

Remembering  how  the  Prophets  and 
Apostles 

Denounced  the  covetous  hirelings  and 
diviners, 

I entered  in,  and  spake  the  words  the 
Lord 

Commanded  me  to  speak.  I could  no 
less. 

Endicott.  Are  you  a Prophetess? 

Edith.  Is  it  not  written, 

“ Upon  my  handmaidens  will  I pour 
out 

My  spirit,  and  they  shall  prophesy  ” ? 

Endicott.  Enough ; 

For  out  of  your  own  mouth  are  you 
condemned ! 

Need  we  hear  furthur? 

The  Judges.  We  are  satisfied. 

Endicott.  It  is  sufficient.  Edith 
Christison, 

The  sentence  of  the  Court  is,  that  you 
be 

Scourged  in  three  towns,  with  forty 
stripes  save  one. 

Then  banished  upon  pain  of  death  ! 

Edith.  Your  sentence 

Is  truly  no  more  terrible  to  me 

Than  had  you  blown  a feather  into  the 

And,  as  it  fell  upon  me,  you  had  said, 

“ Take  heed  it  hurt  thee  not  !”  God’s 
will  be  done  ! 

Wenlock  Christison  {unseen  in  the 
crowd).  Woe  to  the  city  of 
blood  ! The  stone  shall  cry 

Out  of  the  wall : the  beam  from  out 
the  timber 

Shall  answer  it ! Woe  unto  him  that 
buildeth 

A town  with  blood,  and  stablisheth  a 
city 

By  his  iniquity  ! 

Endicott.  Who  is  it  makes 

Such  outcry  here  ? 

Christison  {coming  forward).  I, 
Wenlock  Christison  I 

Endicott.  Banished  on  pain  of 
death,  why  come  you  here  ? 

Christison  I come  to  warn  you  that 
you  shed  no  more 


I S3 

The  blood  of  innocent  men  ! It  cries 
aloud 

For  vengeance  to  the  Lord  ! 

Endicott.  Your  life  is  forfeit 

Unto  the  law  ; and  you  shall  surely  die, 
And  shall  not  live. 

Christison.  Like  unto  Eleazer, 
Maintaining  the  excellence  of  ancient 
years 

And  the  honor  of  his  gray  head,  I 
stand  before  you  ; 

Like  him  disdaining  all  hypocrisy, 
Lest,  through  desire  to  live  a little 
longer, 

I get  a stain  to  my  old  age  and  name  ! 

Endicott.  Being  in  banishment,  on 
pain  of  death. 

You  come  now  in  among  us  in  rebel- 
lion. 

Christison.  I come  not  in  among 
you  in  rebellion, 

But  in  obedience  to  the  Lord  of 
Heaven. 

Not  in  contempt  to  any  Magistrate, 

But  only  in  the  love  I bear  your  souls. 
As  ye  shall  know  hereafter,  when  all 
men 

Give  an  account  of  deeds  done  in  the 
body  ! 

God’s  righteous  judgments  ye  cannot 
escape. 

One  of  the  Judges.  Those  who  have 
gone  before  you  said  the  same, 
And  yet  no  judgment  of  the  Lord  hath 
fallen 
Upon  us. 

Christison.  He  but  waiteth  till  the 
measure 

Of  your  iniquities  shall  be  filled  up. 
And  ye  have  run  your  race.  Then 
will  his  wrath 

Descend  upon  you  to  the  uttermost  I 
For  thy  part,  Humphrey  Atherton,  it 
hangs 

Over  thy  head  already.  It  shall  come 
Suddenly,  as  a thief  doth  in  the  night, 
And  in  the  hour  when  least  thou  think- 
est  of  it  ! 

Endicott.  We  have  a law,  and  by 
that  law  you  die. 

Christison.  I,  a free  man  of  England 
and  freeborn. 

Appeal  unto  the  laws  of  mine  own  na- 
tion ! 


154 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


Endicott.  There ’s  no  appeal  to 
England  from  this  Court ! 

What  ! do  you  think  our  statutes  are 
but  paper  ? 

Are  but  dead  leaves  that  rustle  in  the 
wind  ? 

Or  litter  to  be  trampled  underfoot? 
What  say  ye,  Judges  of  the  Court, — 
what  say  ye  ? 

Shall  this  man  suffer  death?  Speak 
your  opinions. 

One  of  the  Judges.  I am  a mortal 
man,  and  die  I must, 

And  that  erelong ; and  I must  then 
appear 

Before  the  awful  judgment-seat  of 
Christ, 

To  give  account  of  deeds  done  in  the 
body. 

My  greatest  glory  on  that  day  will  be. 
That  I have  given  my  vote  against  this 
man. 

Christison.  If,  Thomas  Danforth, 
thou  hast  nothing  more 
To  glory  in  upon  that  dreadful  day 
Than  blood  of  innocent  people,  then 
thy  glory 

Will  be  turned  into  shame  ! The 
Lord  hath  said  it  ! 

Atiother  Judge.  I cannot  give  con- 
sent, while  other  men 
Who  have  been  banished  upon  pain  of 
death 

Are  now  in  their  own  houses  here 
among  us. 

Endicott.  Ye  that  will  not  consent, 
make  record  of  it. 

I thank  my  God  that  I am  not  afraid 
To  give  my  judgment.  Wenlock 
Christison, 

You  must  be  taken  back  from  hence  to 
prison. 

Thence  to  the  place  of  public  execution. 
There  to  be  hanged  till  you  be  dead  — 
dead  — dead  ! 

Christison.  If  ye  have  power  to  take 
my  life  from  me,  — 

Which  I do  question,  — God  hath 
power  to  raise 

The  principle  of  life  in  other  men. 

And  send  them  here  among  you.  There 
shall  be 

No  peace  unto  the  wicked,  saith  my 
God. 


Listen,  ye  Magistrates,  for  the  Lord 
hath  said  it  I 

The  day  ye  put  his  servitors  to  death. 

That  day  the  Day  of  your  own  Visita- 
tion, 

The  Day  of  Wrath,  shall  pass  above 
your  heads,' 

And  ye  shall  be  accursed  forevermore  ! 

{To  Edith,  embracing  her.) 

Cheer  up,  dear  heart  ! they  have  not 
power  to  harm  us. 

{Exeunt  Christison  and  Edith 

gtiarded.  The  scene  closes.) 

Scene  II.  — A Street.  Enter  John 
'Endicott  and  Ups ahh. 

John  Endicott.  Scourged  in  three 
towns  ! and  yet  the  busy  people 

Go  up  and  down  the  streets  on  their 
affairs 

Of  business  or  of  pleasure,  as  if  nothing 

Had  happened  to  disturb  them  or  their 
thoughts  ! 

When  bloody  tragedies  like  this  are 
acted 

The  pulses  of  a nation  should  stand 
still  ; 

The  town  should  be  in  mourning,  and 
the  people 

Speak  only  in  low  whispers  to  each 
other. 

Upsall.  I know  this  people ; and 
that  underneath 

A cold  outside  there  burns  a secret  fire 

That  will  find  vent,  and  will  not  be  put 
out. 

Till  every  remnant  of  these  barbarous 
laws 

Shall  be  to  ashes  burned,  and  blown 
away. 

John  Endicott.  Scourged  in  three 
towns  ! It  is  incredible 

Such  things  can  be  ! I feel  the  blood 
within  me 

F ast  mounting  in  rebellion,  since  in  vain 

Have  I implored  compassion  of  my  fa- 
ther ! 

Upsall.  You  know  your  father  only 
as  a father ; 

I know  him  better  as  a Magistrate. 

He  is  a man  both  loving  and  severe  ; 

A tender  heart ; a will  inflexible. 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


‘55 


None  ever  loved  him  more  than  I have 
loved  him. 

He  is  an  upright  man  and  a just  man 
In  all  things  save  the  treatment  of  the 
Quakers. 

John  Endicott.  Yet  I have  found 
him  cruel  and  unjust 
Even  as  a father.  He  has  driven  me 
forth 

Into  the  street ; has  shut  his  door  upon 
me, 

With  words  of  bitterness.  I am  as 
homeless 

As  these  poor  Quakers  are. 

Upsall.  Then  come  with  me. 

You  shall  be  welcome  for  your  father’s 
sake, 

And  the  old  friendship  that  has  been 
between  us. 

He  will  relent  erelong.  A father’s  anger 
Is  like  a sword  without  a handle, 
piercing 

Both  ways  alike,  and  wounding  him 
that  wields  it 

No  less  than  him  that  it  is  pointed  at. 

[,Exeunt. 

Scene  III.  — The  prison.  Night. 

Edith  reading  the  Bible  by  a lamp. 

Edith.  “ Blessed  are  ye  when  men 
shall  persecute  you. 

And  shall  revile  you,  and  shall  say 
against  you 

All  manner  of  evil  falsely  for  my  sake  ! 
Rejoice,  and  be  exceeding  glad,  for  great 
Is  your  reward  in  heaven.  For  so  the 
prophets, 

Which  were  before  you,  have  been  per- 
secuted.” 

{Enter  Endicott.) 

John  Endicott.  Edith  ! 

Edith.  Who  is  it  speaketh? 

John  Endicott.  Saul  of  Tarsus  ; 
As  thou  didst  call  me  once. 

Edith  {coming  forward).  Yea,  I 
remember. 

Thou  art  the  Governor’s  son. 

John  Endicott.  I am  ashamed 

Thou  shouldst  remember  me. 

Edith.  Why  comest  thou 

Into  this  dark  guest-chamber  in  the 
night  ? 

What  seekest  thou  ? 


John  Endicott.  Forgiveness! 

Edith.  I forgive 

All  who  have  injured  me.  What  hast 
thou  done  ? 

John  Endicott.  I have  betrayed 
thee,  thinking  that  in  this 

I did  God  service.  Now,  in  deep 
contrition, 

I come  to  rescue  thee. 

Edith.  From  what? 

John  Endicott.  From  prison. 

Edith.  I am  safe  here  within  these 
gloomy  walls. 

John  Endicott.  From  scourging  in 
the  streets,  and  in  three  towns  ! 

Edith.  Remembering  who  was 
scourged  for  me,  I shrink  not 

Nor  shudder  at  the  forty  stripes  save 

John  Endicott.  Perhaps  from  death 
itself  1 

Edith.  I fear  not  death. 

Knowing  who  died  for  me. 

John  Endicott  {aside).  Sure  some 
divine 

Ambaspdor  is  speaking  through  those 
lips 

And  looking  through  those  eyes  ! I can- 
not answer  1 

Edith.  If  all  these  prison  doors 
stood  opened  wide 

I would  not  cross  the  threshold,  — not 
one  step. 

There  are  invisible  bars  I cannot  break; 

There  are  invisible  doors  that  shut  me 
in. 

And  keep  me  ever  steadfast  to  my  pur- 
pose. 

John  Endicott.  Thou  hast  the  pa- 
tience and  the  faith  of  Saints  I 

Edith.  Thy  Priest  hath  been  with 
me  this  day  to  save  me. 

Not  only  from  the  death  that  comes  to 
all. 

But  from  the  second  death  ! 

John  Endicott.  The  Pharisee  ! 

My  heart  revolts  against  him  and  his 
creed  ! 

Alas ! the  coat  that  was  without  a 
seam 

Is  rent  asunder  by  contending  sects  ; 

Each  bears  away  a portion  of  the  gar- 
ment. 

Blindly  believing  that  he  has  the  whole  1 


156  THE  NEIV-ENGLA 

Edith.  When  Death,  the  Healer, 
shall  have  touched  our  eyes 

With  moist  clay  of  the  grave,  then  shall 
we  see 

The  truth  as  we  have  never  yet  beheld  it. 

But  he  that  overcometh  shall  not  be 

Hurt  of  the  second  death.  Has  he 
forgotten 

The  many  mansions  in  our  Father’s 
house  ? 

John  Endicott.  There  is  no  pity  in 
his  iron  heart ! 

The  hands  that  now  bear  stamped  upon 
their  palms 

The  burning  sign  of  Heresy,  hereafter 

Shall  be  uplifted  against  such  accusers. 

And  then  the  imprinted  letter  and  its 
meaning 

Will  not  be  Heresy,  but  Holiness  ! 

Edith  Remember,  thou  condemnest 
thine  own  father ! 

John  Endicott.  I have  no  father ! 
He  has  cast  me  off. 

I am  as  homeless  as  the  wind  that 
moans 

And  wanders  through  the  streets.  O, 
come  with  me  ! 

Do  not  delay.  Thy  God  shall  be  my 
God, 

And  where  thou  goest  I will  go. 

Edith.  _ I cannot. 

Yet  will  I not  deny  it,  nor  conceal  it ; 

From  the  first  moment  I beheld  thy  face 

I felt  a tenderness  in  my  soul  towards 
thee. 

My  mind  has  since  been  inward  to  the 
Lord, 

Waiting  his  word.  It  has  not  yet  been 
spoken. 

Johit  Endicott.  I cannot  wait.  Trust 
me.  O,  come  with  me  ! 

Edith.  In  the  next  room,  my  father, 
an  old  man, 

Sitteth  imprisoned  and  condemned  to 
death. 

Willing  to  prove  his  faith  by  martyrdom  ; 

And  thinkest  thou  his  daughter  would 
do  less? 

John  Endicott.  O,  life  Is  sweet,  and 
death  is  terrible  ! 

Edith.  I have  too  long  walked  hand 
in  hand  with  death 

To  shudder  at  that  pale  familiar  face. 

But  leave  me  now.  I wish  to  be  alone. 


ND  TRAGEDIES. 


John  Endicott.  Not  yet.  O,  let  me 
stay. 

Edith.  Urge  me  no  more. 

John  Endicott.  Alas  ! good  night. 

I will  not  say  good  bjr ! 

Edith.  Put  this  temptation  under- 
neath thy  feet. 

To  him  that  overcometh  shall  be  given 

The  white  stone  with  the  new  name 
written  on  it. 

That  no  man  knows  save  him  that  doth 
receive  it. 

And  I will  give  thee  a new  name,  and 
call  thee 

Paul  of  Damascusandnot  Saulof  Tarsus. 

{Exit  Endicott.  Edith  sits  down 
again  to  read  the  Bible.) 

ACT  IV. 

Scene  I.  — King  Street,  in  front  of 
the  town-house.  Kempthorn  in  the 
pillory.  Merry,  and  a crowd  of 
lookers-on. 

Kempthorn  {sings). 

The  world  is  full  of  care. 

Much  like  unto  a bubble  ; 

Women  and  care,  and  care  and  women, 
And  women  and  care  and  trouble. 

Good  Master  Merry,  may  I say  con- 
found ? 

Merry.  Ay,  that  you  may. 
Kempthorn.  Well,  then,  with  your 
permission. 

Confound  the  Pillory ! 

Merry.  That ’s  the  very  thing 

The  joiner  said  who  made  the  Shrews- 
bury stocks. 

He  said.  Confound  the  stocks,  because 
they  put  him 

Into  his  own.  He  was  the  first  man  m 
them. 

Kempthor7i.  For  swearing,  was  it  ? 
Merry.  No,  it  was  for  charging; 

He  charged  the  town  too  much ; and  so 
the  town. 

To  make  things  square,  set  him  in  his 
own  stocks. 

And  fined  him  five  pound  sterling,  — 
just  enough 

To  settle  his  own  bill. 

Kempthomt.  And  served  him  right ; 

But,  Master  Merry,  is  it  not  eight  bells? 
Merry.  Not  quite. 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


Kempthorn.  For,  do  you  see?  I ’m 
getting  tired 

Of  being  perched  aloft  here  in  this  cro’ 
nest 

Like  the  first  mate  of  a whaler,  or  a 
Middy 

Mast-headed,  looking  out  for  land  ! 
Sail  ho ! 

Here  comes  a heavy-laden  merchantman 
With  the  lee  clews  eased  off,  and  run- 
ning free 

Before  the  wind.  A solid  man  of  Boston. 
A comfortable  man,  with  dividends, 
And  the  first  salmon,  and  the  first  green 
peas. 

{^A  gentleman  passes.) 

He  does  not  even  turn  his  head  to  look. 
He ’s  gone  without  a word.  Here  comes 
another, 

A different  kind  of  craft  on  a taut  bow- 
line, — 

Deacon  Giles  Firmin  the  apothecary, 

A pious  and  a ponderous  citizen, 
Looking  as  rubicund  and  round  and 
splendid 

As  the  great  bottle  in  his  own  shop 
window  ! 

(Deacon  Firmin  passes.) 

And  here ’s  my  host  of  the  Three  Mari- 
ners, 

My  creditor  and  trusty  taverner. 

My  corporal  in  the  Great  Artillery  ! 

He ’s  not  a man  to  pass  me  without 
speaking. 

(Cole  looks  away  and  passes.) 
Don’t  yaw  so  ; keep  your  luff,  old  hypo- 
crite ! 

Respectable,  ah  yes,  respectable, 

You,  with  your  seat  in  the  new  Meet- 
ing-house, 

Your  cow-right  on  the  Common  ! But 
who ’s  this  ? 

I did  not  know  the  Mary  Ann  was  in  ! 
And  yet  this  is  my  old  friend.  Captain 
Goldsmith, 

As  sure  as  I stand  in  the  bilboes  here. 
Why,  Ralph,  my  boy  ' 

{Enter  Ralph  Goldsmith.) 

Goldsmith.  Why,  Simon,  is  it  you? 
Set  in  the  bilboes  ? 

Kempthorn.  Chock-a-block,  you  see. 
And  without  chafing-gear. 


157 

Goldsmith.  And  what ’s  it  for  ? 

Kempthorn.  Ask  that  starbowline 
wiih  the  boat-hook  there. 

That  handsome  man. 

Merry  {bowing).  F or  swearing. 

Kempthorn.  _ In  this  town 

They  put  sea-captains  in  the  stocks  for 
swearing. 

And  Quakers  for  not  swearing.  So  look 
out. 

Goldsmith.  I pray  you  set  him  free  ; 
he  meant  no  harm  ; 

’T  is  an  old  habit  he  picked  up  afloat. 

Merry.  Well,  as  your  time  is  out,  you 
may  come  down. 

The  law  allows  you  now  to  go  at  large 
Like  Elder  Oliver’s  horse  upon  the 
Common. 

Kempthorn.  Now,  hearties,  bear  a 
hand  ! Let  go  and  haul. 
(Kempthorn  is  set free,  and  comes for- 
ward, shaking  Goldsmith’s  hand.) 

Kempthorn.  Give  me  your  hand, 
Ralph.  Ah,  how  good  it  feels  ! 
The  hand  of  an  old  friend. 

Goldsmith.  God  bless  you,  Simon  ! 

Kempthorn.  Now  let  us  make  a 
straight  wake  for  the  tavern 
Of  the  Three  Mariners,  Samuel  Cole 
commander  ; 

Where  we  can  take  our  ease,  and  see 
the  shipping,  _ 

And  talk  about  old  times. 

Goldsmith.  First  I must  pay 

My  duty  to  the  Governor,  and  take 
him 

His  letters  and  despatches.  Come 
with  me. 

Kempthorn.  I ’d  rather  not.  I saw 
him  yesterday. 

Goldsmith.  Then  wait  for  me  at  the 
Three  Nuns  and  Comb. 

Kempthorn.  I thank  you.  That ’s 
too  near  to  the  town  pump. 

I will  go  with  you  to  the  Governor’s, 
And  wait  outside  there,  sailing  off  and 
on  ; 

If  I am  wanted,  you  can  hoist  a signal. 

Merry  Shall  I go  with  you  and 
point  out  the  way  ? 

Goldsmith.  O no,  I thank  you.  I 
am  not  a stranger 
Here  in  your  crooked  little  town. 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


is8 

Merry.  How  now,  sir? 

Do  you  abuse  our  town  ? \_Exit. 
Goldsmith,.  O,  no  offence. 

Kempthorn.  Ralph,  I am  under 
bonds  for  a hundred  pound. 
Goldsmith.  Hard  lines.  What  for? 
Kempthorn.  To  take  some  Quakers 
back 

I brought  here  from  Barbadoes  in  the 
Swallow. 

And  how  to  do  it  I don’t  clearly  see, 

For  one  of  them  is  banished,  and 
another 

Is  sentenced  to  be  hanged ! What 
shall  I do  ? 

Goldsmith.  Just  slip  your  hawser  on 
some  cloudy  night  ; 

Sheer  off,  and  pay  it  with  the  topsail, 
Simon  ! \_Exeunt. 

Scene  II.  — Street  in  front  of  the 
prison.  In  the  background  a gate- 
way and  several  flights  of  steps 
leading  up  terraces  to  the  Gover- 
nor’s house.  A pimtp  on  one  side 
of  the  street.  John  Endicott, 
Merry,  Upsall,  and  others.  A 
drti7n  beats. 

John  Endicott.  O shame,  shame, 
shame  ! 

Merry.  Yes,  it  would  be  a shame 

But  for  the  damnable  sin  of  Heresy  ! 
John  Endicott.  A woman  scourged 
and  dragged  about  our  streets  ! 
Merry.  Well,  Roxbury  and  Dor- 
chester must  take 

Their  share  of  shame.  She  will  be 
whipped  in  each  ! 

Three  towns,  and  Forty  Stripes  save 
one ; that  makes 

Thirteen  in  each. 

John  Endicott.  And  are  we  Jews  or 
Christians  ? 

See  where  she  comes,  amid  a gaping 
crowd  ! 

And  she  a child.  O,  pitiful ! pitiful  ! 

There ’s  blood  upon  her  clothes,  her 
hands,  her  feet  ! 

{Enter  Marshal  and  a drummer, 
Edith,  stripped  to  the  waist,  fol- 
lowed by  the  hang77tan  with  a 
scourge,  and  a noisy  crowd. 


Edith.  Here  let  me  rest  one  mo- 
ment. I am  tired. 

Will  some  one  give  me  water  ? 

Merry.  At  his  peril. 

Upsall.  Alas ! that  I should  live  to 
see  this  day  ! 

A IVoman.  Did  I forsake  my  father 
and  my  mother 

And  come  here  to  New  England  to  see 
this  ? 

Edith.  I am  athirst.  Will  no  one 
give  me  water  ? 

John  E7idicott  {making  his  way 
through  the  crowd  with  water). 
In  the  Lord’s  name  ! 

Edith  {drinking).  In  his  name  I re- 
ceive it  ! 

Sweet  as  the  water  of  Samaria’s  well 

This  water  tastes.  I thank  thee.  Is  it 
thpu  ? 

I was  afraid  thou  hadst  deserted  me. 

Joh7i  Endicott.  Never  will  I desert 
thee,  nor  deny  thee. 

Be  comforted. 

Merry.  O Master  Endicott, 

Be  careful  what  you  say. 

John  Endicott.  Peace,  idle  bab- 
bler ! 

Merry.  You’ll  rue  these  words  ! 

John  Endicott.  Art  thou  not  better 
now  ? 

Edith.  They’ve  struck  me  as  with 
roses. 

Joh7i  Endicott.  Ah,  these  wounds  ! 

These  bloody  garments  ! 

Edith.  It  is  granted  me 

To  seal  my  testimony  with  my  blood. 

John  EttdicoU.  O blood-red  seal  of 
man’s  vindictive  wrath  ! 

0 roses  of  the  garden  of  the  Lord  ! 

I,  of  the  household  of  Iscariot, 

1 have  betrayed  in  thee  my  Lord  and 

Master! 


(Wenlock  Christison  appears  above, 
at  the  window  of  the  prison,  stretch- 
ing out  his  hands  through  the  bars.) 


Christison.  Be  of  good  courage,  O 
my  child  ! my  child  1 
Blessed  art  thou  when  men  shall  perse- 
cute thee  1 

Fear  not  their  faces,  saith  the  Lord,  fear 


not, 

or  I am  with  thee  to  deliver  thee. 


JOHN  ENDJCOTT. 


159 


A Citizen.  Who  is  it  crying  from  the 
prison  yonder  ? 

Merry.  It  is  old  Wenlock  Christison. 

Christison.  Remember 

Him  who  was  scourged,  and  mocked, 
and  crucified  ! 

I see  his  messengers  attending  thee. 

Be  steadfast,  O,  be  steadfast  to  the 
end ! 

Edith  {-with  exnltatio7L).  I cannot 
reach  thee  wiih  these  arms,  O 
father  ! 

But  closely  in  my  soul  do  I embrace 
thee 

And  hold  thee.  In  thy  dungeon  and 
thy  death 

I will  be  with  thee,  and  will  comfort 
thee  ! 

Marshal.  Come,  put  an  end  to  this. 
Let  the  drum  beat. 

{The  drtim  heats.  Exeunt  all  but 

John  Endicott,  Upsall,  and 

Merry.) 

Christison.  Dear  child,  farewell  ! 
Never  shall  I behold 

Thy  face  again  with  these  bleared  eyes 
of  flesh : 

And  never  wast  thou  fairer,  lovelier, 
dearer 

Than  now,  when  scourged  and  bleed- 
ing, and  insulted 

For  the  truth’s  sake.  O pitiless,  piti- 
less town  ! 

The  wrath  of  God  hangs  over  thee  ; 
and  the  day 

Is  near  at  hand  when  thou  shalt  be 
abandoned 

To  desolation  and  the  breeding  of  net- 
tles. 

The  bittern  and  the  cormorant  shall 
lodge 

Upon  thine  upper  lintels,  and  their  voice 

Sing  in  thy  windows.  Yea,  thus  saith 
the  Lord ! 

John  Endicott.  Awake  ! awake  ! ye 
sleepers,  ere  too  late, 

And  wipe  these  bloody  statutes  from 
your  books ! [Exit. 

Merry.  Take  heed  ; the  walls  have 

Upsall.  At  last,  the  heart 

Of  every  honest  man  must  speak  or 
break  ! 


{Enter  Governor  Endicott  with 
his  halberdiers.) 

Endicott.  What  is  this  stir  and  tu- 
mult in  the  street  ? 

Merry.  Worshipful  sir,  the  whipping 
of  a girl. 

And  her  old  father  howling  from  the 
prison. 

Endicott  {to  his  halberdiers).  Go  on. 

Christison.  AiUiuclnis  ! Antiochiis  ! 

O thou  that  slajest  the  Maccabees  ! 
The  Lord 

Shall  smite  thee  with  mcurable  dis- 
ease. 

And  no  man  shall  endure  to  carry 
thee  ! 

Merry.  Peace,  old  blasphemer  ! 

Christison.  I both  feel  and  see 

The  presence  and  the  waft  of  death  go 
forth 

Against  thee,  and  already  thou  dost 
look 

Like  one  that ’s  dead  1 

Merry  {pointing).  And  there  is 
your  own  son. 

Worshipful  sir,  abetting  the  sedition. 

Endicott.  Arrest  him.  Do  not  spare 
him. 

Merry  {aside).  _ His  own  child  ! 

There  is  some  special  providence  takes 
care 

That  none  shall  be  too  happy  in  this 
world  ! 

His  own  first-born  ! 

Endicott.  O Absalom,  my  son  ! 

{Exeunt ; the  Governor,  with  his 

halberdiers,  ascendmg  the  steps  of 

his  house.) 

Scene  III.  — The  Governor' s private 
room.  Papers  upon  the  table. 
Endicott  and  Bellingham. 

Endicott.  There  is  a ship  from  Eng- 
land has  come  in. 

Bringing  despatches  and  much  news 
from  home. 

His  Majesty  was  at  the  Abbey  crowned ; 

And  when  the  coronation  was  com- 
plete 

There  passed  a mighty  tempest  o’er  the 
city. 

Portentous  with  great  thunderings  and 
lightnings. 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


i6o 

Bellingham.  After  his  father’s,  if  I 
well  remember, 

There  was  an  earthquake,  that  fore- 
boded evil. 

Endicott.  Ten  of  the  Regicides  have 
been  put  to  death  ! 

The  bodies  of  Cromwell,  Ireton,  and 
Bradshaw 

Have  been  dragged  from  their  graves, 
and  publicly 

Hanged  in  their  shrouds  at  Tybura. 
Bellingham.  Horrible  ! 

Etidicott.  Thus  the  old  tyranny  re- 
vives again  ! 

Its  arm  is  long  enough  to  reach  us  here. 

As  you  will  see.  For,  more  insulting 
still 

Than  flaunting  in  our  faces  dead  men’s 
shrouds. 

Here  is  the  King’s  Mandamus,  taking 
from  us. 

From  this  day  forth,  all  power  to  pun- 
ish Quakers. 

Bellingham.  That  takes  from  us  all 
power  : we  are  but  puppets. 

And  can  no  longer  execute  our  laws. 
Endicott.  His  Majesty  begins  with 
pleasant  words, 

“ Trusty  and  well-beloved,  we  greet 
you  well  ” : 

Then  with  a ruthless  hand  he  strips 
from  me 

All  that  which  makes  me  what  I am  ; 
as  if 

From  some  old  general  in  the  field, 
grown  gray 

In  service,  scarred  with  many  wounds. 

Just  at  the  hour  of  victory,  he  should 
strip 

His  badge  of  office  and  his  well-gained 
honors. 

And  thrust  him  back  into  the  ranks 
again. 

{Opens  the  Mandamus,  and  hands  it  to 
Bellingham  ; a7td,  while  he  is  read- 
ing, Endicott  walks  tip  and  down 
the  roomly 

Here  read  it  for  yourself ; you  see  his 
words 

Are  pleasant  words  — considerate  — 
not  reproachful  — 

Nothing  could  be  more  gentle  — or 
more  royal ; 


But  then  the  meaning  underneath  the 
words, 

Mark  that.  He  says  all  people  known 
as  Quakers 

Among  us,  now  condemned  to  suffer 
death 

Or  any  corporal  punishment  whatever. 
Who  are  imprisoned,  or  may  be  ob- 
noxious 

To  the  like  condemnation,  shall  be  sent 
Forthwith  to  England,  to  be  dealt  with 
there 

In  such  wise  as  shall  be  agreeable 
Unto  the  English  law  and  their  de- 
merits. 

Is  it  not  so  ? 

Bellingham  {returning  the  pape^^. 
Ay,  so  the  paper  says. 

Endicott.  It  means  we  shall  no 
longer  rule  the  Province  ; 

It  means  farewell  to  law  and  liberty. 
Authority,  respect  for  Magistrates, 

The  peace  and  welfare  of  tlie  Common- 
wealth. 

If  all  the  knaves  upon  this  continent 
Can  make  appeal  to  England,  and  so 
thwart 

The  ends  of  truth  and  justice  by  delay. 
Our  power  is  gone  forever.  We  are 
nothing 

But  ciphers,  valueless  save  when  we 
follow 

Some  unit  ; and  our  unit  is  the  King  ! 
’T  is  he  that  gives  us  value. 

Bellingham.  I confess 

Such  seems  to  be  the  meaning  of  this 
paper. 

But  being  the  King’s  Mandamus, 
signed  and  sealed. 

We  must  obey,  or  we  are  in  rebellion. 

Endicott.  I tell  you,  Richard  Belling- 
ham, — I tell  you. 

That  this  is  the  beginning  of  a struggle 
Of  which  no  mortal  can  foresee  the  end. 
I shall  not  live  to  fight  the  battle  for 
you, 

I am  a man  disgraced  in  every  way ; 
This  order  takes  from  me  my  self- 
respect 

And  the  respect  of  others.  ’T  is  my 
doom. 

Yes,  my  death-warrant,  but  must  be 
obeyed  ! 

Take  it,  and  see  that  it  is  executed 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


So  far  as  this,  that  all  be  set  at  large  ; 

But  see  that  none  of  them  be  sent  to 
England 

To  bear  false  witness,  and  to  spread 
reports 

That  might  be  prejudicial  to  ourselves. 

[Exit  Bellingham. 

There ’s  a dull  pain  keeps  knocking  at 
my  heart, 

Dolefully  saying,  “ Set  thy  house  in 
order. 

For  thou  shalt  surely  die,  andshalt  not 
live  ! ” 

For  me  the  shadow  on  the  dial-plate 

Goeth  not  back,  but  on  into  the  dark  ! 

[Exit. 


Scene  IV.  — The  street.  A crowd, 
reading  a placard  on  the  door  of 
the  Meeting-house.  Nicholas  Up- 
SALL  amo7ig  them.  Efiter  John 
Norton. 

Norton.  What  is  this  gathering  h ere  ? 
Upsall.  One  William  Brand, 

An  old  man  like  ourselves,  and  weak  in 
body. 

Has  been  so  cruelly  tortured  in  his 
prison. 

The  people  are  excited,  and  they 
threaten 

To  tear  the  prison  down. 

Norto7t.  What  has  been  done  ? 

Upsall.  He  has  been  put  in  irons, 
with  his  neck 

And  heels  tied  close  together,  and  so 
left  _ 

F rom  five  in  the  morning  until  nine  at 
night. 

Nort07u  What  more  was  done  ? 
Upsall.  He  has  been  kept  five  days 

In  prison  without  food,  and  cruelly 
beaten, 

So  that  his  limbs  were  cold,  his  senses 
stopped. 

Norton.  What  more?  _ 

Upsall.  And  is  this  not  enough  ? 
Norton.  Now  hear  me. 

This  William  Brand  of  yours  has  tried 
to  beat 

Our  Gospel  Ordinances  black  and  blue  ; 

And,  if  he  has  been  beaten  in  like 
manner, 


i6i 


It  is  but  justice,  and  I will  appear 
In  his  behalf  that  did  so.  I suppose 
That  he  refused  to  work. 

Upsall.  He  was  too  weak. 

How  could  an  old  man  work,  when  he 
was  starving  ? 

Norto>i.  And  what  is  this  placard  ? 

Upsall.  The  Magistrates, 

To  appease  the  people  and  prevent  a 
tumult. 

Have  put  up  these  placards  throughout 
the  town. 

Declaring  that  the  jailer  shall  be  dealt 
with 

Impartially  and  sternly  by  the  Court. 

Norton  {tearing  down  the  placard). 
Down  with  this  weak  and  cow- 
ardly concession. 

This  flag  of  truce  with  Satan  and  with 
Sin  ! 

I fling  it  in  his  face  ! I trample  it 
Under  my  feet ! It  is  his  cunning 
craft. 

The  masterpiece  of  his  diplomacy. 

To  cry  and  plead  for  boundless  tolera- 
tion. 

But  toleration  is  the  first-born  child 
Of  all  abominations  and  deceits. 

There  is  no  room  in  Christ’s  trium- 
phant army 

For  tolerationists.  And  if  an  Angel 
Preach  any  other  gospel  unto  you 
Than  that  ye  have  received,  God’s 
malediction 

Descend  upon  him  ! Let  him  be  ac- 
cursed ! [E.xit. 

Upsall.  Now,  go  thy  ways,  John 
Norton  ! go  thy  ways. 

Thou  Orthodox  Evangelist,  as  men  call 
thee  ! 

But  even  now  there  cometh  out  of 
England, 

Like  an  o’ertaking  and  accusing  con- 
science. 

An  outraged  man,  to  call  thee  to  ac- 
count 

For  the  unrighteous  murder  of  his  son  ! 

[Exit. 

Scene  V.  — The  Wilderness.  Enter 
Edith. 

Edith.  How  beautiful  are  these 
autumnal  woods  ! 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


162 

The  wilderness  doth  blossom  like  the 
rose, 

And  change  into  a garden  of  the  Lord  ! 
How  silent  everywhere  ! Alone  and 
lost 

Here  in  the  forest,  there  comes  over  me 
An  inward  awfulness.  I recall  the 
words 

Of  the  Apostle  Paul  : “In  journeyings 
often. 

Often  in  perils  in  the  wilderness, 

In  weariness,  in  painfulness,  in  wa‘ch- 
ings. 

In  hunger  and  thirst,  in  cold  and 
nakedness  ” ; 

And  I forget  my  weariness  and  pain, 
My  watchings,  and  my  hunger  and  my 
thirst. 

The  Lord  hath  said  that  he  will  seek 
his  flock 

In  cloudy  and  dark  days,  and  they  shall 
dwell 

Securely  in  the  wilderness,  and  sleep 
Safe  in  the  woods  ! Whichever  way  I 
turn, 

I come  back  with  my  face  towards  the 
town. 

Dimly  I see  it,  and  the  sea  beyond  it. 

0 cruel  town  ! I know  what  waits  me 

there. 

And  yet  I must  go  back  ; forever  louder 

1 hear  the  inward  calling  of  the  .Spirit, 
And  must  obey  the  voice.  O woods, 

that  wear 

Your  golden  crown  of  martyrdom, 
blood-stained. 

From  you  I learn  a lesson  of  submis- 

And  am  obedient  even  unto  death. 

If  God  so  wills  it.  . [Exit, 

yohn  Endicott  {within).  Edith  ! 
Edith  ! Edith  ! 

{He  enters.) 

It  is  in  vain  ! I call,  she  answers  not ! 
I follow,  but  I find  no  trace  of  her ! 
Blood  ! blood ! The  leaves  above  me 
and  around  me 

Are  red  with  blood  ! The  pathways  of 
the  forest, 

The  clouds  that  canopy  the  setting  sun. 
And  even  the  little  river  in  the  meadows. 
Are  stained  with  it ! Where’er  I look, 
I see  it ! 


Away,  thou  horrible  vision  ! Leave  me  ! 
leave  me  ! 

Alas  ! yon  winding  stream,  that  gropes 
its  way 

Through  mist  and  shadow,  doubling  on 
itselfi 

At  length  will  find,  by  the  unerring  law 

Of  nature,  what  it  seeks.  O soul  of 
man. 

Groping  through  mist  and  shadow,  and 
recoiling 

Back  on  thyself,  are,  too,  thy  devious 
ways 

Subject  to  law?  and  when  thou  seem- 
est  to  wander 

The  farthest  from  thy  goal,  art  thou 
still  drawing 

Nearer  and  nearer  to  it,  till  at  length 

Thou  findest,  like  the  river,  what  thou 
seekest?  {Exit. 

ACT  V. 

Scene  I.  — Daybreak.  Street  in  front 

of  house.  A light  in  the 

window.  Enter  John  Endicott. 

John  Endicott.  O silent,  sombre, 
and  deserted  streets. 

To  me  ye  ’re  peopled  with  a sad  pro- 
cession. 

And  echo  only  to  the  voice  of  sor- 
row ! 

O houses  full  of  peacefulness  and  sleep, 

Far  better  were  it  to  awake  no  more 

Than  wake  to  look  upon  such  scenes 
again  ! 

There  is  a light  in  Master  Upsall’s  win- 
dow. 

The  good  man  is  already  risen,  for 
sleep 

Deserts  the  couches  of  the  old. 
{Knocks  at  Upsall’s  door.) 

Upsall  {at  the  window).  Who ’s 
there  ? 

John  Endicott.  Am  I so  changed 
you  do  not  know  my  voice  ? 

Upsall.  I know  you.  Have  you 
heard  what  things  have  happened  ? 

John  Endicott.  I have  heard  noth- 
ing. 

Upsall.  Stay  ; I will  come  down. 

John  Endicott.  I am  afraid  some 
dreadful  news  awaits  me  ! 


JOHN  END  ICO  TT. 


163 


I do  not  dare  to  ask,  yet  am  impatient 
To  know  the  worst.  O,  I am  very  weary 
With  waiting  and  with  watching  and 
pursuing  1 

{^Enter  Upsall.) 

Upsall.  Thank  God,  you  have  come 
back  ! I ’ve  much  to  tell  you. 
Where  have  you  been? 

John  Rndicott.  You  know  that 
I was  seized, 

Fined,  and  released  again.  You  know 
that  Edith, 

After  her  scourging  in  three  towns,  was 
banished 

Into  the  wilderness,  into  the  land 
That  is  not  sown  ; and  there  I followed 
her. 

But  found  her  not.  Where  is  she? 

Upsall.  She  is  here. 

John  Endicott.  O,  do  not  speak  that 
word,  for  it  means  death  ! 

Upsall.  No,  it  means  life.  She 
sleeps  in  yonder  chamber. 

Listen  to  me.  When  news  of  Leddra’s 
death 

Reached  England,  Edward  Burroughs, 
having  boldly 

Got  access  to  the  presence  of  the  King, 
Told  him  there  was  a vein  of  innocent 
blood 

Opened  in  his  dominions  here,  which 
threatened 

To  overrun  them  all.  The  King  replied, 
“But  I will  stop  that  vein!”  and  he 
forthwith 

Sent  his  Mandamus  to  our  Magistrates, 
That  they  proceed  no  further  in  this 
business. 

So  all  are  pardoned,  and  all  set  at  large. 

John  Endicott.  Thank  God  ! This 
is  a victory  for  truth  ! 

Our  thoughts  are  free.  They  cannot 
be  shut  up 

In  prison  walls,  nor  put  to  death  on 
scaffolds  1 

Upsall.  Come  in  ; the  morning  air 
blows  sharp  and  cold 
Through  the  damp  streets. 

John  Endicott.  It  is  the  dawn  of  day 
That  chases  the  old  darkness  from  our 
sky, 

And  fills  the  land  with  liberty  and  light. 

\_Exeunt. 


Scene  II.  — The  parlor  of  the  Three 
Marmers.  Kempthorn. 

Kempthorn.  A dull  life  this,  — a dull 
life  anyway  1 

Ready  for  sea  ; the  cargo  all  aboard. 

Cleared  for  Barbadoes,  and  a fair  wind 
blowing 

From  nor’-nor’-west ; and  I,  an  idle 
lubber. 

Laid  neck  and  heels  by  that  confounded 
bond  ! 

I said  to  Ralph,  says  I,  “ What ’s  to  be 
done  ? ” 

Says  he  : “Just  slip  your  hawser  in  the 
night ; 

Sheer  off,  and  pay  it  with  the  topsail, 
.Simon.” 

But  that  won’f  do  ; because,  you  see, 
the  owners 

So'mehow  or  other  are  mixed  up  with  it. 

Here  are  King  Charles’s  Twelve  Good 
Rules,  that  Cole 

Thinks  as  important  as  the  Rule  of 
Three.  (Reads-) 

“ Make  no  comparisons ; make  no  long 
meals.” 

Those  are  good  rules  and  golden  for  a 
landlord 

To  hang  in  his  best  parlor,  framed  and 
glazed  I 

“Maintain  no  ill  opinions;  urge  no 
healths.” 

I drink  the  King’s,  whatever  he  may 


Now  of  Ralph  Goldsmith  I ’ve  a good 
opinion. 

And  of  the  bilboes  I ’ve  an  ill  opinion  ; 

And  both  of  these  opinions  I ’ll  main- 
tain 

As  long  as  there ’s  a shot  left  in  the 
locker. 

(Enter  Edward  Butter  with  an  ear- 
trnmpet. ) 

Butter.  Good  morning.  Captain 
Kempthorn. 

Kempthorn.  Sir,  to  you. 

You’ve  the  advantage  of  me.  I don’t 
know  you. 

What  may  I call  your  name? 

Butter.  That ’s  not  your  name  ? 

Kempthorn.  Yes,  that’s  my  name. 
What ’s  yours  ? 


164 


THE  NEIV-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


Butter.  My  name  is  Butter. 

I am  the  treasurer  of  the  Common- 
wealth. 

Kempthorn.  Will  you  be  seated  ? 

Blitter.  What  say?  Who’s  con- 
ceited ? 

Kempthorn<  Will  you  sit  down  ? 

Butter.  O,  thank  you. 

Kempthorn.  Spread  yourself 

Upon  this  chair,  sweet  Butter. 

Butter  {sitting  down).  A fine  morn- 
ing. 

Kempthorn.  Nothing ’s  the  matter 
with  it  that  I know  of. 

I have  seen  better,  and  I have  seen 
worse. 

The  wind ’s  nor’west.  That ’s  fair  for 
them  that  sail. 

Butter.  You  need  not  speak  so  loud  ; 
I understand  you. 

You  sail  to-day. 

Kempthorn.  No,  I don’t  sail  to-day. 

So,  be  it  fair  or  foul,  it  matters  not. 

Say,  will  you  smoke  ? There ’s  choice 
tobacco  here. 

Butter.  No,  thank  you.  It’s  against 
the  law  to  smoke 

Kempthorn.  Then,  will  you  drink? 
There  ’sgood  ale  at  this  inn. 

Butter.  No.  ithankyou.  It’s  against 
the  law  to  drink. 

Keinpthorn.  Well,  almost  every- 
_ thing ’s  against  the  law 

In  this  good  town.  Give  a wide  berth 
to  one  thing. 

You  ’re  sure  to  fetch  up  soon  on  some- 
thing else. 

Butter.  And  so  you  sail  to-day  for 
dear  Old  England. 

I am  not  one  of  those  who  think  a sup 

Of  this  New  England  air  is  better  worth 

Than  a whole  draught  of  our  Old  Eng- 
land’s ale. 

Kempthorn.  Nor  I.  Give  me  the 
ale  and  keep  the  air. 

But,  as  I said,  I do  not  sail  to-day. 

Butter.  Ah  yes  ; you  sail  to-day. 

Kempthorn.  I ’m  under  bonds 

To  take  some  Quakers  back  to  the 
Barbadoes ; 

And  one  of  them  is  banished,  and  an- 
other 

Is  sentenced  to  be  hanged. 

Butter.  No,  all  are  pardoned, 


All  are  set  free,  by  order  of  the  Court ; 

But  some  of  them  would  fain  return  to 
England. 

You  must  not  take  them.  Upon  that 
condition 

Your  bond  is  cancelled. 

Kempthorn.  Ah,  the  wind 

has  shifted  ! 

I pray  you,  do  you  speak  officially  ? 

Butter.  I always  speak  officially. 
To  prove  it, 

Here  is  the  bond. 

{Rising,  and  giving  a paper!) 

Kempthorii.  And  here ’s  my  hand 
upon  it. 

And,  look  you,  when  I say  I ’ll  do  a 
thing 

The  thing  is  done.  Am  I now  free  to  go? 

Butter.  What  say? 

Kempthorn.  I say,  confound 

the  tedious  man 

With  his  strange  speaking-trumpet  I 
Can  I go  ? 

Butter.  You  ’re  free  to  go,  by  order 
of  the  Court. 

Your  servant,  sir.  {Exit. 

Kempthorn  {shouting  from  the  ivin~ 
dow).  Swallow,  ahoy  ! Hallo  ! 

I f ever  a man  was  happy  to  leave  Boston, 

That  man  is  Simon  Kempthorn  of  the 
Swallow  ! 

{Re-enter  Butter.) 

Butter.  Pray,  did  you  call? 

Kempthorn.  Call?  Yes,  I hailed 
the  Swallow. 

Butter.  That ’s  not  my  name.  My 
name  is  Edward  Butter. 

You  need  not  speak  so  loud. 

Kempthorn  {shaking  hands).  Good 
by  ! Good  by  ! 

Butter.  Your  servant,  sir. 

Kempthorn.  And  yours 

a thousand  times  ! {Exeunt. 

Scene  III.  — Governor  Endicott’s 
private  room.  A n opeii  window. 
Endicott  seated  in  anarm-chair. 
Bellingham  standing  near. 

Endicott.  O lost,  O loved  ! wilt  thou 
return  no  more  ? 

O loved  and  lost,  and  loved  the  more 
when  lost  I 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 


How  many  men  are  dragged  into  their 
graves 

By  their  rebellious  children  ! I now 
feel 

The  agony  of  a father’s  breaking  heart 

In  David’scry,  “ O Absalom,  my  son  ! ” 

Bellingham.  Can  you  riot  turn  your 
thoughts  a little  while 

To  public  matters  ? There  are  papers 
here 

That  need  attention. 

Endicott.  Trouble  me  no  more  ! 

My  business  now  is  with  another  world. 

Ah,  Richard  Bellingham  ! I greatly 
fear 

That  in  my  righteous  zeal  I have  been 
led 

To  doing  many  things  which,  left  un- 
done. 

My  mind  would  now  be  easier.  Did  I 
dream  it, 

Or  has  some  person  told  me,  that  John 
Norton 

Is  dead  ? 

Bellmgham.  You  have  not  dreamed 
it.  He  is  dead. 

And  gone  to  his  reward.  It  was  no 
dream. 

Endicott.  Then  it  was  very  sudden  ; 
for  I saw  him 

Standing  where  you  now  stand  not  long 
ago. 

Bellingham.  By  his  own  fireside,  in 
the  afternoon, 

A faintness  and  a giddiness  came  o’er 
him  : 

And,  leaning  on  the  chimney-piece,  he 
cried, 

“ The  hand  of  God  is  on  me  ! ” and  fell 
dead. 

Endicott.  And  did  not  some  one  say, 
or  have  I dreamed  it. 

That  Humphrey  Atherton  is  dead  ? 

Bellmgham.  Alas  ! 

He  too  is  gone,  and  by  a death  as  sud- 
den. 

Returning  home  one  evening,  at  the 
place 

Where  usually  the  Quakers  have  been 
scourged, 

His  horse  took  fright,  and  threw  him  to 
the  ground. 

So  that  his  brains  were  dashed  about 
the  street. 


i6s 

Endicott.  I am  not  superstitious, 
Bellingham, 

And  yet  I tremble  lest  it  may  have  been 
A judgment  on  him. 

Bellingham.  So  the  people  think. 
They  say  his  horse  saw  standing  in  the 
way 

The  ghost  of  William  Leddra,  and  was 
frightened. 

And  furthermore,  brave  Richard  Da- 
venport, 

The  captain  of  the  Castle,  in  the  storm 
Has  been  struck  dead  by  lightning. 

Endicott.  Speak  no  more. 

For  as  I listen  to  your  voice  it  seems 
As  if  the  Seven  Thunders  uttered  their 
voices. 

And  the  dead  bodies  lay  about  the 
streets 

Of  the  disconsolate  city  ! Bellingham, 
I did  not  put  those  wretched  men  to 
death. 

I did  but  guard  the  passage  with  the 
sword 

Pointed  towards  them,  and  they  rushed 
upon  it ! 

Yet  now  I w'ould  that  I had  taken  no 
part 

In  all  that  bloody  work. 

Bellingham.  The  guilt  of  it 

Be  on  their  heads,  not  ours. 

Endicott.  Are  all  set  free  ? 

Bellingham.  All  are  at  large. 

Endicott.  And  none  have  been  sent 
back 

To  England  to  malign  us  with  the  King  ? 

Bellingham.  The  ship  that  brought 
them  sails  this  very  hour. 

But  carries  no  one  back. 

{A  distant  cannon.) 

Endicott.  What  is  that  gun  ? 

Bellingham.  Her  parting  signal. 
Through  the  window  there. 
Look,  you  can  see  her  sails,  above  the 
roofs. 

Dropping  Ijelow  the  Castle,  outward 
bound. 

Endicott.  O white,  white,  white  I 
Would  that  my  soul  had  wings 
As  spotless  as  those  shining  sails  to  fly 
with  ! 

Now  lay  this  cushion  straight.  I thank 
you.  Hark  1 


[66 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


I thought  I heard  the  hall  door  open 
and  shut ! 

I thought  I heard  the  footsteps  of  my 
boy  ! 

Bellingham.  It  was  the  wind. 

There ’s  no  one  in  the  passage. 
Endicott.  O Absalom,  my  son  ! I 
feel  the  world 

Sinking  beneath  me,  sinking,  sinking, 
sinking  ! 

Death  knocks ! I go  to  meet  him ! 
Welcome,  Death  ! 

{Rises.,  and  sinks  back  dead ; his  head 
falling  aside  upott  his  shoulder  ) 
Bellingham.  O ghastly  sight ! Like 
one  who  has  been  hanged  ! 

Endicott ! Endicott ! He  makes  no 
answer ! 


{Raises  Endicott’s  head.) 

He  breathes  no  more ! How  bright 
this  signet-ring 

Glitters  upon  his  hand,  where  he  has 
worn  it 

Through  such  long  years  of  trouble,  as 
if  Death 

Had  given  him  this  memento  of  af- 
fection, 

And  whispered  in  his  ear,  “Remember 

How  placid  and  how  quiet  is  his  face. 

Now  that. the  struggle  and  the  strife  are 
ended  ! 

Only  the  acrid  spirit  of  the  times 

Corroded  this  true  steel.  O,  rest  in 
peace, 

Courageous  heart ! Forever  rest  in 
peace  1 


II. 

GILES  COREY 


SALEM  FARMS. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAE. 


Gxles  Corey  

John  Hathorne  .... 

Cotton  Mather 

Jonathan  Walcot  .... 
Richard  Gardner  .... 
John  Gloyd  

. . Magistrate. 

. . a youth. 

. . Sea-Captain. 

Martha 

Tituba  

Mary  Walcot 

The  Scene  is  in  Salem  i: 

n the  year  1692. 

PROLOGUE. 


Delusions  of  the  days  that  once  have 
been, 

Witchcraft  and  wonders  of  the  world 
unseen, 

Phantoms  of  air,  and  necromantic  arts 

That  crushed  the  weak  and  awed  the 
stoutest  hearts,  — 

These  are  our  theme  to-night ; and 
vaguely  here. 

Through  the  dim  mists  that  crowd  the 
atmosphere. 

We  draw  the  outlines  of  weird  figures 
cast 

In  shadow  on  the  background  of  the 
Past. 

Who  would  believe  that  in  the  quiet 
town 

Of  Salem,  and  amid  the  woods  that 
crown 

The  neighboring  hillsides,  and  the  sun- 
ny farms 

That  fold  it  safe  in  their  paternal 
arms,  — 

Who  would  believe  that  in  those  peace- 
ful streets, 

Where  the  great  elms  shut  out  the  sum- 
mer heats. 

Where  quiet  reigns,  and  breathes 
through  brain  and  breast 

The  benediction  of  unbroken  rest,  — 

Who  would  believe  such  deeds  could 
find  a place 

As  these  whose  tragic  history  we  re- 
trace ? 

’T  was  but  a village  then  : the  good- 
man  ploughed 

His  ample  acres  under  sun  or  cloud  ; 

The  goodwife  at  her  doorstep  sat  and 
spun. 

And  gossiped  with  her  neighbors  in  the 
sun  ; 

The  only  men  of  dignity  and  state 


Were  then  the  Minister  and  the  Magis- 
trate 

Who  ruled  their  little  realm  with  iron 
rod. 

Less  in  the  love  than  in  the  fear  of  God  ; 

And  who  believed  devoutly  in  the 
Powers 

Of  Darkness,  working  in  this  world  of 
ours, 

In  spells  of  Witchcraft,  incantations 
dread. 

And  shrouded  apparitions  of  the  dead. 

Upon  this  simple  folk  “ with  fire  and 
flame,” 

Saith  the  old  Chronicle,  “ the  Devil 
came  ; 

Scattering  his  firebrands  and  his  poi- 
sonous darts, 

To  set  on  fire  of  Hell  all  tongues  and 
hearts  ! 

And ’t  is  no  wonder;  for,  with  all  his 
host. 

There  most  he  rages  where  he  hateth 
most. 

And  is  most  hated  : so  on  us  he  brings 

All  these  stupendous  and  portentous 
things ! ” 

Something  of  this  our  scene  to-night 
will  show  ; 

And  ye  who  listen  to  the  Tale  of  Woe, 

Be  not  too  swift  in  casting  the  first 
stone, 

Nor  think  New  England  bears  the  guilt 
alone. 

This  sudden  burst  of  wickedness  and 
crime 

Was  but  the  common  madness  of  the 
time. 

When  in  all  lands,  that  lie  within  the 
sound 

Of  Sabbath  bells,  a Witch  was  burned 
or  drowned. 


GILES  COREY  OF  THE  SALEM  FARMS. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I.  — The  woods  near  Salem 
Village.  Enter  Tituba,  with  a 
basket  of  herbs,  , 

Tituba.  Here ’s  monk’s-hood,  that 
breeds  fever  in  the  blood  ; 

And  deadly  nightshade,  that  makes 
men  see  ghosts ; 

And  henbane,  that  will  shake  them  with 
convulsions ; 

And  meadow-saffron  and  black  helle- 
bore, 

That  rack  the  nerves,  and  puff  the  skin 
with  dropsy ; 

And  bitter-sweet,  and  briony,  and  eye- 
bright. 

That  cause  eruptions,  nosebleed,  rheu- 
matisms ; 

I know  them,  and  the  places  where  they 
hide 

In  field  and  meadow ; and  I know  their 
secrets. 

And  gather  them  because  they  give  me 
power 

Over  all  men  and  women.  Armed  with 
these, 

I,  Tituba,  an  Indian  and  a slave. 

Am  stronger  than  the  captain  with  his 
sword, 

Am  richer  than  the  merchant  with  his 
money, 

Am  wiser  than  the  scholar  with  his 
books, 

Mightier  than  Ministers  and  Magis- 
trates, 

With  all  the  fear  and  reverence  that  at- 
tend them  ! 

For  I can  fill  their  bones  with  aches 
and  pains, 


Can  make  them  cough  with  asthma, 
shake  with  palsy, 

Can  make  their  daughters  see  and  talk 
with  ghosts, 

Or  fall  into  delirium  and  convulsions. 

I have  the  Evil  Eye,  the  Evil  Hand ; 

A touch  from  me,  and  they  are  weak 
with  pain, 

A look  from  me,  and  they  consume  and 
die. 

The  death  of  cattle  and  the  blight  of 
corn. 

The  shipwreck,  the  tornado,  and  the 
fire,  — 

These  are  my  doings,  and  they  know  it 
not. 

Thus  I work  vengeance  on  mine  ene- 
mies. 

Who,  while  they  call  me  slave,  are 
slaves  to  me  ! 

{Exit  Tituba.  Enter  Mather,  boot- 
ed and  spurred,  with  a riding-whip 
in  his  hand.) 

Mather.  Methinks  that  I have  come 
by  paths  unknown 

Into  the  land  and  atmosphere  of  Witch- 
es ; 

For,  meditating  as  I journeyed  on, 

Lo  ! I have  lost  my  way  ! If  I remem- 
ber 

Rightly,  it  is  Scribonius  the  learned 

That  tells  the  story  of  a man  who,  pray- 
ing 

For  one  that  was  possessed  by  Evil 
Spirits, 

Was  struck  by  Evil  Spirits  in  the  face  ; 

I,  journeying  to  circumvent  the  Witches, 

Surely  by  Witches  have  been  led  astray. 

I am  persuaded  there  are  few  affairs 


'74 


THE  NEIV-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


In  which  the  Devil  doth  not  interfere. 
We  cannot  undertake  a journey  even, 
But  Satan  will  be  there  to  meddle  with  it 
By  hindering  or  by  furthering.  He 
hath  led  me 

Into  this  thicket,  struck  me  in  the  face 
With  branches  of  the  trees,  and  so  en- 
tangled 

The  fetlocks  of  my  horse  with  vines  and 
brambles, 

That  I must  needs  dismount,  and 
search  on  foot 

For  the  lost  pathway  leading  to  the 
village. 

{,Re-enter  Tituba.) 

What  shape  is  this?  What  monstrous 
apparition. 

Exceeding  fierce,  that  none  may  pass 
that  way  ? 

Tell  me,  good  woman,  if  you  are  a 
woman  — 

Tituha.  I am  a woman,  but  I am  not 
good. 

I am  a Witch  ! 

Mather.  Then  tell  me.  Witch 

and  woman. 

For  you  must  know  the  pathw'ays 
through  this  wood, 

Where  lieth  Salem  Village? 

Tituba.  _ Reverend  sir. 

The  village  is  near  by.  I ’m  going 
there 

With  these  few-  herbs.  I ’ll  lead  you. 
Follow  me. 

Mather.  First  say,  who  are  you?  I 
am  loath  to  follow 

A stranger  in  this  wilderness,  for  fear 
Of  being  misled,  and  left  in  some  morass. 
Who  are  you? 

Tituba.  I am  Tituba  the  Witch, 
Wife  of  John  Indian. 

Mather.  You  are  Tituba? 

I know  you  then.  You  have  renounced 
the  Devil, 

And  have  become  a penitent  confessor. 
The  Lord  be  praised  ! Go  on,  I ’ll  fol- 
low you. 

Wait  only  till  I fetch  my  horse,  that 
stands 

Tethered  among  the  trees,  not  far  from 
here. 

Tituba.  Let  me  get  up  behind  you, 
reverend  sir. 


Mather.  The  Lord  forbid ! What 
would  the  people  think. 

If  they  should  see  the  Reverend  Cotton 
Mather 

Ride  into  Salem  with  a Witch  behind 
him  ? 

The  Lord  forbid  I 

'I  ituba.  I do  not  need  a horse  ; 

I can  ride  through  the  air  upon  a stick. 

Above  the  tree-tops  and  above  the 
houses. 

And  no  one  see  me,  no  one  overtake  me  I 
\_Exeunt. 

Scene  II.  — A room  Justice  H.a- 

ihorne’s.  a clock  tn  the  corner. 

Enter  Hathorne  and  Mather. 

Hathorne.  You  are  welcome,  rever- 
end sir,  thrice  welcome  here 

Beneath  my  humble  roof. 

Mather.  I thank  your  Worship. 

Hathorne.  Pray  you  be  seated.  You 
must  be  fatigued 

With  your  long  ride  through  unfre- 
quented woods. 

( They  sit  down.) 

Mather.  You  know  the  purport  of 
my  visit  here,  — 

To  be  advised  by  you,  and  counsel  with 
you. 

And  with  the  Reverend  Clergy  of  the 
village. 

Touching  these  witchcrafts  that  so 
much  afflict  you  ; 

And  see  w’ith  mine  own  eyes  the  won- 
ders told 

Of  spectres  and  the  shadows  of  the 
dead. 

That  come  back  from  their  graves  to 
speak  with  men.. 

Hathorne.  Some  men  there  are,  I 
have  known  such,  who  think 

That  the  two  w'orlds  — the  seen  and  the 
unseen. 

The  world  of  matter  and  the  world  of 
spirit  — 

Are  like  the  hemispheres  upon  our 
maps. 

And  touch  each  other  only  at  a point. 

But  these  two  w’orlds  are  not  divided 
thus. 

Save  for  the  purposes  of  common 
speech. 


GILES  COREY  OF  THE  SALEM  FARMS. 


175 


They  form  one  globe,  in  which  the 
parted  seas 

All  flow  together  and  are  intermingled, 
While  the  great  continents  remain  dis- 
tinct. 

Mather.  I doubt  it  not.  The  spirit- 
ual world 

Lies  all  about  us,  and  its  avenues 
Are  open  to  the  unseen  feet  of  phan- 
toms 

That  come  and  go,  and  we  perceive 
them  not 

Save  by  their  influence,  or  when  at  times 
A most  mysterious  Providence  permits 
them 

To  manifest  themselves  to  mortal  eyes. 

Hathorne.  You,  who  are  always  wel- 
come here  among  us. 

Are  doubly  welcome  now.  We  need 
your  wisdom, 

Your  learning  in  these  things,  to  be  our 
guide. 

The  Devil  hath  come  down  in  wrath 
upon  us. 

And  ravages  the  land  with  all  his  hosts. 

Mather.  The  Unclean  .Spirit  said, 
“ My  name  is  Legion  ! ” 
Multitudes  in  the  Valley  of  Destruction  ! 
But  when  our  fervent,  well-directed 
prayers. 

Which  are  the  great  artillery  of  Heaven, 
Are  brought  into  the  field,  I see  them 
scattered 

And  driven  like  Autumn  leaves  before 
the  wind. 

Hathorne.  You,  as  a Minister  of 
God,  can  meet  them 
With  spiritual  weapons  ; but,  alas  ! 

I,  as  a Magistrate,  must  combat  them 
With  weapons  from  the  armory  of  the 
flesh. 

Mather.  _ These  wonders  of  the  world 
invisible,  — 

These  spectral  shapes  that  haunt  our 
habitations,  — 

The  multiplied  and  manifold  afflictions 
With  which  the  aged  and  the  dying 
saints 

Have  their  death  prefaced  and  their  age 
imbittered,  — 

Are  but  prophetic  trumpets  that  pro- 
claim 

The  Second  Coming  of  our  Lord  on 
earth 


The  evening  wolves  will  be  much  more 
abroad. 

When  we  are  near  tjie  evening  of  the 
world. 

Hathorne.  When  you  shall  see,  as  I 
have  hourly  seen. 

The  sorceries  and  the  witchcrafts  that 
torment  us. 

See  children  tortured  by  invisible  spirits, 
And  wasted  and  consumed  by  powers 
unseen. 

You  will  confess  the  half  has  not  been 
told  you. 

Mather.  It  must  be  so.  The  death- 
pangs  of  the  Devil 

Will  make  him  more  a Devil  than  before, 
And  Nebuchadnezzar’s  furnace  will  be 
heated 

Seven  times  more  hot  before  its  putting 
out. 

Hathorne.  Advise  me,  reverend  sir. 
I look  to  you 

For  counsel  and  for  guidance  in  this 
matter. 

What  further  shall  we  do  ? 

Mather.  Remember  this. 

That  as  a sparrow  falls  not  to  the  ground 
Without  the  will  of  God,  so  not  a Devil 
Can  come  down  from  the  air  without 
his  leave. 

We  must  inquire. 

Hathorne.  Dear  sir,  we  have  in- 
quired ; 

Sifted  the  matter  thoroughly  through 
and  through. 

And  then  resifted  it. 

Mather.  _ If  God  permits 
These  Evil  Spirits  from  the  unseen  re- 
gions 

To  visit  us  with  surprising  informations. 
We  must  inquire  what  cause  there  is  for 
this. 

But  not  receive  the  testimony  borne 
By  spectres  as  conclusive  proof  of  guilt 
In  the  accused. 

Hathorne.  Upon  such  evidence 
We  do  not  rest  our  case.  The  ways  are 
many 

In  which  the  guilty  do  betray  them- 
selves. 

Mather.  Be  careful.  Carry  the  knife 
with  such  exactness, 

That  on  one  side  no  innocent  blood  be 
shed 


176 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


By  too  excessive  zeal,  and,  on  the  other, 
No  shelter  given  to  any  work  of  darkness. 
Hathortie.  For  one,  I do  not  fear  ex- 
cess of  zeal. 

What  do  we  gain  by  parleying  with  the 
Devil? 

You  reason,  but  you  hesitate  to  act ! 
Ah,  reverend  sir ! believe  me,  in  such 
cases 

The  only  safety  is  in  acting  promptly. 
’Tis  not  the  part  of  wisdom  to  delay 
In  things  where  not  to  do  is  still  to  do 
A deed  more  fatal  than  the  deed  we 
shrink  from. 

You  are  a man  of  books  and  meditation, 
But  I am  one  who  acts. 

Mather.  God  give  us  wisdom 

In  the  directing  of  this  thorny  business. 
And  guide  us,  lest  New  England  should 
become  ^ 

Of  an  unsavory  and  sulphurous  odor 
In  the  opinion  of  the  world  abroad  ! 

(The  clock  strikes-) 

I never  hear  the  striking  of  a clock 
Without  a warning  and  an  admonition 
That  time  is  on  the  wing,  and  we  must 
quicken 

Our  tardy  pace  in  journeying  Heaven- 
ward, 

As  Israel  did  in  journeying  Canaan- 
ward  ! 

(They  rise.) 

Hathorne.  Then  let  us  make  all 
haste  ; and  I will  show  yoti 
In  what  disguises  and  what  fearful  i-hapes 
The  Unclean  Spirits  haunt  this  neigh- 
borhood, 

And  you  will  pardon  my  excess  of  zeal. 
Mather.  Ah,  poor  New  England  ! 
He  who  hurricanoed 
The  house  of  Job  is  making  now  on  thee 
One  last  assault,  more  deadly  and  more 
snarled 

With  unintelligible  circumstances 
Than  any  thou  hast  hitherto  encoun- 
tered ! (Exeunt. 

Scene  III. — A room  in  Walcot’s 
house.  Mary  Walcot  seated  m 
an  arm-chair.  Tituba  with  a 
mirror. 

Mary.  Tell  me  another  story,  Tituba. 
A drowsiness  is  stealing  over  me 


Which  is  not  sleep  ; for,  though  I close 
mine  eyes, 

I am  awake,  and  in  another  world. 

Dim  faces  of  the  dead  and  of  the  absent 

Come  floating  up  before  me,  — floating, 
fading. 

And  disappearing. 

Tituba.  Look  into  this  glass. 

What  see  you  ? 

Mary.  Nothing  but  a golden  vapor. 

Yes,  something  more.  An  island,  with 
^the  sea 

Breaking  all  round  it,  like  a blooming 
hedge. 

What  land  is  this? 

Tituba,  It  is  San  Salvador, 

Where  Tituba  was  born.  What  see 
you  now  ? 

Mary.  A man  all  black  and  fierce. 

Tituba.  That  is  my  father. 

He  was  an  Obi  man,  and  taught  me 
magic. 

Taught  me  the  use  of  herbs  and  images. 

What  is  he  doing  ? 

Mary.  Holding  in  his  hand 

A waxen  figure.  He  is  melting  it 

Slowly  before  a fire. 

Tituba.  And  now  what  see  you  ? 

Mary.  A woman  lying  on  a bed  of 
leaves, 

Wasted  and  worn  away.  Ah,  she  is 
dying  ! 

Tituba.  That  is  the  way  the  Obi  men 
destroy 

The  people  they  dislike  ! That  is  the 
way 

Some  one  is  wasting  and  consuming  you. 

Mary.  You  terrify  me,  Tituba  ! O, 
save  me 

From  those  who  make  me  pine  and 
waste  aw’ay  ! 

Who  are  they?  Tell  me. 

Tituba.  That  I do  not  know. 

But  you  w’ill  see  them.  They  will  come 
to  you. 

Mary.  No,  do  not  let  them  come  ! 
I cannot  bear  it ! 

I am  too  weak  to  bear  it ! I am  dying. 

(Falls  into  a trance.) 

Tituba.  Hark ! there  is  some  one 
coming ! 

(Enter  Hathorne,  Mather,  and 
Walcot.) 


GILES  COREY  OF  THE  SALEM  FARMS. 


177 


Walcot.  There  she  lies, 

Wasted  and  worn  by  devilish  incanta- 
tions !_ 

0 my  poor  sister  ! 

Mather.  Is  she  always  thus  ? 

Walcot.  Nay,  she  is  sometimes  tor- 
tured by  convulsions. 

Mather.  Poor  child  ! How  thin  she 
is  ! How  wan  and  wasted  ! 

Hathorne.  Observe  her.  She  is 
troubled  in  her  sleep. 

Mather.  Some  fearful  vision  haunts 
her. 

Hathorne.  You  now  see 

With  your  own  eyes,  and  touch  with 
your  own  hands, 

The  mysteries  of  this  Witchcraft. 

Mather.  One  would  need 

The  hands  of  Briareus  and  the  eyes  of 
Argus 

To  see  and  touch  them  all. 

Hathorne.  You  now  have  entered 

The  realm  of  ghosts  and  phantoms,  — 
the  vast  realm 

Of  the  unknown  and  the  invisible. 

Through  whose  wide-open  gates  there 
blows  a wind 

From  the  dark  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
Death, 

That  freezes  us  with  horror. 

Mary  [starting).  Take  her  hence  ! 

Take  her  away  from  me.  I see  her 
there  ! 

She ’s  coming  to  torment  me  ! 

Walcot  {taking  her  hand).  O my 
sister  ! 

What  frightens  you?  She  neither  hears 
nor  sees  me. 

She ’s  in  a trance. 

Mary.  Do  you  not  see  her  there  ? 

Tituba.  My  child,  who  is  it  ? 

Mary.  Ah,  I do  not  know. 

1 cannot  see  her  face. 

Tituba.  How  is  she  clad  ? 

Mary.  She  wears  a crimson  bodice. 
In  her  hand 

She  holds  an  image,  and  is  pinching 
it 

Between  her  fingers.  Ah,  she  tortures 
me  ! 

I see  her  face  now.  It  is  Goodwife 
Bishop  ! 

Why  does  she  torture  me?  I never 
harmed  her ! 

12 


And  now  she  strikes  me  with  an  iron 
rod  ! 

O,  I am  beaten  ! 

Mather.  _ ' This  is  wonderful  ! 

I can  see  nothing  ! Is  this  apparition 
Visibly  there,  and  yet  we  cannot  see  it  ? 

Hathorne.  It  is.  The  spectre  is  in- 
visible 

Unto  our  grosser  senses,  but  she  sees  it. 

Mary.  Look  ! look  ! there  is  another 
clad  in  gray  ! 

She  holds  a spindle  in  her  hand,  and 
threatens 

To  stab  me  with  it  1 It  is  Goodwife 
Corey  ! 

Keep  her  away!  Now  she  is  coming 
at  me  ! 

O mercy  1 mercy  ! 

W alcot  {thrusting  with  his  sword). 
There  is  nothing  there  I 

Mather  {to  H athorne).  Do  you  see 
anything? 

Hathorne.  The  laws  that  govern 
The  spiritual  world  prevent  our  seeing 
Things  palpable  and  visible  to  her. 
These  spectres  are  to  us  as  if  they  were 
not. 

Mark  her,  she  wakes. 

(Titub.'V  touches  her,  and  she  awakes.) 

Mary.  Who  are  these  gentlemen  ? 

Walcot.  They  are  our  friends-  Dear 
Mar3^  are  you  better  ? 

Mary.  Weak,  very  weak. 

{Taking  a spindle  from  her  lap,  a?id 
holding  it  up.) 

How  came  this  spindle  here  ? 

Tihiba.  You  wrenched  it  from  the 
hand  of  Goodwife  Corey 
When  she  rushed  at  you. 

Hathorne.  Mark  that,  reverend  sir  ! 

Mather.  It  is  most  marvellous,  most 
inexplicable  I 

Tituba  {picking  up  a bit  of  gray 
cloth  from  the  floor).  And  here, 
too,  is  a bit  of  her  gray  dress. 
That  the  sword  cut  away. 

Mather.  Beholding  this. 

It  were  indeed  by  far  more  credulous 
To  be  incredulous  than  to  believe. 
Nonebut  a Sadducee,  who  doubts  of  all 
Pertaining  to  the  spiritual  world. 

Could  doubt  such  manifest  and  damn- 
ing proofs  ! 


178 


THE  NEIV-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


Hathorne.  Are  you  convinced  ? 

Mather  {to  Mary).  Dear  child,  be 
comforted  ! 

Only  by  prayer  and  fasting  can  you  drive 

These  Unclean  Spirits  Irom  you.  An 
old  man 

Gives  you  his  blessing.  God  be  with 
you,  Mary  ! 


ACT  II. 


Look  there  1 

What  ails  the  cattle  ? Are  they  all  Le- 
witched  ? 

They  run  like  mad. 

Gloyd.  They  have  been  overlooked. 

Corey.  The  Evil  Eye  is  on  them  sure 
enough. 

Call  all  the  men.  Be  quick.  Go  after 
them  ! 

{Exit  Gloyd  and  enter  Martha.) 


Scene  I.  — Giles  Corey’s  farm. 
Morning.  Enter  Corey,  with  a 
horseshoe  and  a hajnmer. 

Corey.  The  Lord  hath  prospered  me. 
The  rising  sun 

Shines  on  my  Hundred  Acres  and  my 
woods 

As  if  he  loved  them.  On  a morn  like 
this 

I can  forgive  mine  enemies,  and  thank 
God 

For  all  his  goodness  unto  me  and  mine. 

My  orchard  groans  with  russets  and 
pearmains ; 

My  ripening  corn  shines  golden  in  the 
sun  ; 

My  barns  are  crammed  with  hay,  my 
cattle  thrive  ; 

The  birds  sing  blithely  on  the  trees 
around  me  ! 

And  blither  than  the  birds  my  heart 
within  me, 

But  Satan  still  goes  up  and  down  the 
earth  ; 

And  to  protect  this  house  from  his  as- 
saults, 

And  keep  the  powers  of  ilarkness  from 
my  door. 

This  horseshoe  will  I nail  upon  the 
threshold. 

{Nails  down  the  horseshoe!) 

There,  ye  night-hags  and  witches  that 
torment 

The  neighborhood,  ye  shall  not  enter 
here  ! — 

What  is  the  matter  in  the  field?  — John 
Gloyd  ! 

The  cattle  are  all  running  to  the 
woods  ! — 

John  Gloyd  ! Where  is  the  man  ? 

{Enter  John  Gloyd.) 


Martha.  What  is  amiss  ? 

Corey.  The  cattle  are  bewitched. 
They  are  broken  loose  and  making  for 
the  woods. 

Martha.  Why  will  you  harbor  such 
delusions,  Giles? 

Bewit^ched?  Well,  then  it  was  John 
Gloyd  bewitched  them  ; 

I saw  him  even  now  take  down  the  bars 
And  turn  them  loose  ! They  ’re  only 
frolicsome. 

Corey.  The  rascal  ! 

Martha.  I was  standing  in  the  road. 
Talking  with  Goodwife  Proctor,  and  I 
saw  him. 

Corey.  With  Proctor’s  wife?  And 
what  says  Goodwife  Proctor  ? 

Martha.  Sad  things  indeed ; the 
saddest  you  can  hear 
Of  Bridget  Bishop.  She’s  cried  out 
upon  ! 

Corey.  Poor  soul  ! I ’ve  known  her 
forty  year  or  more. 

She  was  the  widow  Wasselby  ; and  then 
She  married  Oliver,  and  Bishop  next. 
She ’s  had  three  husbands.  I remem- 
ber well 

My  games  of  shovel-board  at  Bishop’s 
tavern 

In  the  old  merry  days,  and  she  so  gay 
With  her  red  paragon  bodice  and  her 


- ribbons  ! 

Ah,  Bridget  Bishop  always  was  a 
Witch  ! 

Martha.  They  ’ll  little  help  her  now, 
— her  caps  and  ribbons 

And  her  red  paragon  bodice,  and  her 
plumes. 

With  which  she  flaunted  in  the  Meeting- 
house ! 

When  next  she  goes  there,  it  will  be  for 
trial. 

Corey.  When  will  that  be  ? 


GILES  COREY  OF  THE  SALEM  FARMS. 


179 


Martha.  This  very  day  at  ten. 

Corey.  Then  get  you  ready.  We 
will  go  and  see  it.  ■ 

Come  ; you  shall  ride  behind  me  on 
the  pillion. 

Martha.  Not  I.  You  know  I do  not 
like  such  things. 

I wonder  you  should.  I do  not  believe 
In  Witches  nor  in  Witchcraft. 

Corey.  Well,  I do. 

There ’s  a strange  fascination  in  it  all, 
That  draws  me  on  and  on.  I know  not 
why. 

Martha.  What  do  we  know  of  spirits 
good  or  ill. 

Or  of  their  power  to  help  us  or  to  harm 
us  ? 

Corey.  Surely  what ’s  in  the  Bible 
must  be  true. 

Did  not  an  Evil  Spirit  come  on  Saul  ? 
Did  not  the  Witch  of  Endor  bring  the 
ghost 

Of  Samuel  from  his  grave  ? The  Bible 
says  so. 

Martha.  That  happened  very  long 
ago. 

Corey.  With  God 

There  is  no  long  ago. 

Martha.  There  is  with  us. 

Corey.  And  Mary  Magdalene  had 
seven  devils, 

And  he  who  dwelt  among  the  tombs  a 
legion  ! 

Martha.  God’s  power  is  infinite.  I 
do  not  doubt  it. 

If  in  his  providence  he  once  permitted 
Such  things  to  be  among  the  Israelites, 
It  does  not  follow  he  permits  them  now, 
And  among  us  who  are  not  Israelites. 
But  we  will  not  dispute  about  it,  Giles. 
Go  to  the  village,  if  you  think  it  best. 
And  leave  me  here  ; I ’ll  go  about  my 
work  \_Exit  into  the  house. 

Corey.  And  I will  go  and  saddle  the 
gray  mare. 

The  last  word  always.  That  is  wo- 
man’s nature. 

If  an  old  man  will  marry  a young  wife, 
He  must  make  up  his  mind  to  many 
things. 

It ’s  putting  new  cloth  into  an  old  gar- 
ment. 

When  the  strain  comes,  it  is  the  old 
gives  way. 


{Goes  to  the  door.) 

0 Martha  ! I forgot  to  tell  you  some- 

thing. 

I ’ve  had  a letter  from  a friend  of  mine, 

A certain  Richard  Gardner  of  Nan- 
tucket, 

Master  and  owner  of  a whaling-vessel ; 

He  writes  that  he  is  coming  down  to 
see  us. 

1 hope  you  ’ll  like  him. 

Martha.  I will  do  my  best. 

Corey.  That ’s  a good  woman.  Now 
I will  be  gone. 

I ’ve  not  seen  Gardner  for  this  twenty 
year ; 

But  there  is  something  of  the  sea  about 
him,  — 

Something  so  open,  generous,  large,  and 
strong. 

It  makes  me  love  him  better  than  a 
brother.  {Exit. 

(Martha  comes  to  the  door.) 

Martha.  O these  old  friends  and 
cronies  of  my  husband, 

These  captains  from  Nantucket  and  the 
Cape, 

That  come  and  turn  my  house  into  a 
tavern 

With  their  carousing  ! Still,  there ’s 
something  frank 

In  these  seafaring  men  that  makes  me 
like  them. 

Why,  here ’s  a horseshoe  nailed  upon 
the  doorstep  ! 

Giles  has  done  this  to  keep  away  the 
Witches. 

I hope  this  Richard  Gardner  will  bring 
with  him 

A gale  of  good  sound  common-sense,  to 
blow 

The  fog  of  these  delusions  from  his 
brain  ! 

Corey  (within).  Ho  ! Martha  ! Mar- 
tha ! 

{Enter  Corey.) 

Have  you  seen  my  saddle  ? 

Martha.  I saw  it  yesterday. 

Corey.  Where  did  you  see  it? 

Martha.  On  a gray  mare,  that  some- 
body was  riding 

Along  the  village  road. 

Corey.  Who  was  it  ^ Tell  me- 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


i8o 


Martha.  Some  one  who  should  have 
stayed  at  home. 

Corey  {restraining  himself).  I see  ! 
Don’t  vex  me,  Martha.  Tell  me  where 
it  is. 

Martha.  I ’ve  hidden  it  away. 

Corey.  Go  fetch  it  me. 

Martha.  Go  find  it. 

Corey.  No.  I ’ll  ride 

down  to  the  village 

Bare-back ; and  when  the  people  stare 
and  say, 

“Giles  Corey,  where ’s  your  saddle?” 
I will  answer, 

“A  Witch  has  stolen  it.”  How  shall 
you  like  that  ? 

Martha.  I shall  not  like  it. 

Corey.  Then  go  fetch  the  saddle. 

{Exit  Martha. 

If  an  old  man  will  marry  a young  wife, 
Why  then  — why  then  — why  then  — 
he  must  spell  Baker  ! * 

{Enter  Martha  with  the  saddle, 
which  she  throws  down.) 

Martha.  There  ! There ’s  the  sad- 
dle. 

Corey.  Take  it  up. 

Martha.  I won’t ! 

Corey  Then  let  it  lie  there.  I ’ll 
ride  to  the  village. 

And  say  you  are  a Witch. 

Martha.  No,  not  that,  Giles. 

{She  takes  up  the  saddle.) 

Corey.  Now  come  with  me,  and  sad- 
dle the  gray  mare 

With  your  .own  hands';  and  you  shall 
see  me  ride 

Along  the  village  road  as  is  becoming 
Giles  Corey  of  the  Salem  Farms,  your 
husband ! [Exeunt. 

Scene  II. — The  Green  in  front  of 

the  Meeting-house  in  Salein  Village- 

People  coming  and  going.  Enter 

Giles  Corey. 

Corey.  A melancholy  end  ! Who 
would  have  thought 

*A  local  expression  for  doing  anything 
difficult.  In  the  old  spelling-books,  Baker 
was  the  first  word  of  two  syll^les,  and  when 
a child  came  to  it  he  thought  he  had  a hard 
task  before  him. 


That  Bridget  Bishop  e’er  would  come 
to  this? 

Accused,  convicted,  and  condemned  to 
death 

For  Witchcraft ! And  so  good  a wo- 
man too  ! 

A Farmer.  Good  morrow,  neighbor 
Corey. 

Corey  {not  hearing  hint).  Who  is 
safe  ? 

How  do  I know  but  under  my  own 
roof 

I too  may  harbor  Witches,  and  some 
Devil 

Be  plotting  and  contriving  against 
me  ? 

Farmer.  He  does  not  hear.  Good 
morrow,  neighbor  Corey  ! 

Corey.  Good  morrow. 

Farmer.  Have  you  seen  John  Proc- 
tor lately  ? 

Corey.  No,  I have  not. 

Farmer.  Then  do  not  see  him,  Corey. 

Corey.  Why  should  I not  ? 

Farmer.  Because  he ’s  angry  with 
you. 

So  keep  out  of  his  way.  Avoid  a quar- 
rel. 

Corey.  Why  does  he  seek  to  fix  a 
quarrel  on  me  ? 

Farmer.  He  says  you  burned  his 
house. 

Corey.  I burn  his  house  ? 

If  he  says  that,  John  Proctor  is  a 
liar  ! 

The  night  his  house  was  burned  I was 
in  bed. 

And  I can  prove  it ! Why,  we  are  old 
friends ! 

He  could  not  say  that  of  me. 

Farmer.  He  did  say  it. 

I heard  him  say  it. 

Corey.  Then  he  shall  unsay  it. 

Fartner.  He  said  you  did  it  out  of 
spite  to  him 

For  taking  part  against  you  in  the 
quarrel 

You  had  with  your  John  Gloyd  about 
his  wages. 

He  says  you  murdered  Goodell ; that 
you  trampled 

Upon  his  body  till  he  breathed  no  more. 

And  so  beware  of  him  ; that ’s  my  ad- 
vice 1 [Exit. 


GILES  COREY  OF  THE  SALEM  FARMS. 


Corey.  By  Heaven  ! this  is  too  much  ! 
I ’ll  seek  him  out, 

And  make  him  eat  his  words,  or  stran- 
gle him. 

I ’ll  not  be  slandered  at  a time  like  this, 
When  every  word  is  made  an  accusa- 
tion. 

When  every  whisper  kills,  and  every 
man 

Walks  with  a halter  round  his  neck  ! 
{E titer  Gloyd  in  haste.) 

What  now? 

Gloyd.  I came  to  look  for  you.  The 


L.orey.  vveu. 

What  of  them  ? Have  you  found  them  t 
Gloyd  . They  are  dead. 

I followed  them  through  the  woods, 
across  the  meadows ; 

Then  they  all  leaped  into  the  Ipswich 
River, 

And  swam  across,  but  could  not  climb 
the  bank. 

And  so  were  drowned. 

Corey.  You  are  to  blame  for  this ; 

For  you  took  down  the  bars,  and  let 
them  loose. 

Gloyd.  That  I deny.  They  broke 
the  fences  down. 

You  know  they  were  bewitched. 

Corey.  Ah,  my  poor  cattle  ! 

The  Evil  Eye  was  on  them ; that  is 
true. 

Day  of  disaster  ! Most  unlucky  day  ! 

Why  did  I leave  my  ploughing  and  my 
reaping 

To  plough  and  reap  this  Sodom  and 
Gomorrah  ? 

O,  I could  drown  myself  for  sheer  vexa- 
tion ! \_Exit. 

Gloyd.  He ’s  going  for  his  cattle. 
He  won’t  find  them. 

By  this  time  they  have  drifted  out  to 
sea. 

They  will  not  break  his  fences  any  more. 

Though  they  may  break  his  heart.  And 
what  care  I ? \_Exit. 

Scene  III. — kitchen-  A table 
with  supper.  Martha  knitting. 

Martha.  He ’s  come  at  last.  I hear 
him  in  the  passage. 


i8i 


Something  has  gone  amiss  with  him  to- 
day ; 

I know'  it  by  his  step,  and  by  the  sound 

The  door  made  as  he  shut  it.  He  is 
angry. 

(^Enter  Corey  with  his  riding-whip. 

As  he  speaks,  he  takes  off  his  hat 

and  gloves,  and  throws  them  down 

violently.) 

Corey.  I say  if  Satan  ever  entered 
man 

He ’s  in  John  Proctor  ! 

Martha.  Giles,  what  is  the  matter? 

You  frighten  me. 

Corey.  I say  if  any  man 

Can  have  a Devil  in  him,  then  that 
man 

Is  Proctor,  — is  John  Proctor,  and  no 
other ! 

Martha.  Why,  what  has  he  been 
doing  ? 

Corey.  Everything ! 

What  do  you  think  I heard  there  in  the 
village? 

Martha.  I ’m  sure  I cannot  guess. 
What  did  you  hear? 

Corey.  He  says  I burned  his  house  ! 

Martha.  Does  he  say  that  ? 

Corey.  He  says  I burned  his  house. 
I was  in  bed 

And  fast  asleep  that  night  ; and  I can 
prove  it. 

Martha.  If  he  says  that,  I think  the 
Father  of  Lies 

Is  surely  in  the  man. 

Corey.  He  does  say  that. 

And  that  I did  it  to  wreak  vengeance  on 
him 

For  taking  sides  against  me  in  the 
quarrel 

I had  with  that  John  Gloyd  about  his 
w'ages. 

And  God  knows  that  I never  bore  him 
malice 

For  that,  as  I have  told  him  twenty 
times  ! 

Martha.  It  is  John  Gloyd  has  stirred 
him  up  to  this. 

I do  not  like  that  Gloyd.  I think  him 
crafty. 

Not  tobe  trusted,  sullen,  and  untruthful. 

Come,  have  your  supper.  You  are  tired 
and  hungry. 


i82 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


Corey.  I ’m  angry,  and  not  hungry. 

Martha.  Do  eat  something. 

You  ’ll  be  the  better  for  it. 

Corey  {sitting  down).  I ’m  not  hun- 
gry- 

Martha.  Let  not  the  sun  go  down 
upon  your  wrath. 

Corey.  It  has  gone  down  upon  it,  and 
will  rise 

To-morrow,  and  go  down  again  upon  it. 

They  have  trumped  up  against  me  the 
old  story 

Of  causing  Goodell’s  death  by  tram- 
pling on  him. 

Martha.  O,  that  is  false.  I know  it 
to  be  false. 

Corey.  He  has  been  dead  these  four- 
teen years  or  more. 

Why  can’t  they  let  him  rest?  Why 
must  they  drag  him 

Out  of  his  grave  to  give  me  a bad  name? 

I did  not  kill  him.  In  his  bed  he  died, 

As  most  men  die,  because  his  hour  had 
come. 

I have  wronged  no  man.  Why  should 
Proctor  say 

Such  things  about  me  ? I will  not  for- 
give him 

Till  he  confesses  he  has  slandered  me 

Then,  I ’ve  more  trouble.  All  my  cattle 
gone. 

Martha.  They  will  come  back  again. 

Corey.  Not  in  this  world. 

Did  I not  tell  you  they  were  overlooked  ? 

They  ran  down  through  the  woods,  into 
the  meadows. 

And  tried  to  swim  the  river,  and  were 
drowned. 

It  is  a heavy  loss. 

Martha.  I ’m  sorry  for  it. 

Corey.  All  my  dear  oxen  dead.  I 
loved  them,  Martha, 

Next  to  yourself.  I liked  to  look  at 
them, 

And  watch  the  breath  come  out  of  their 
wide  nostrils. 

And  see  their  patient  eyes.  Somehow 
I thought 

It  gave  me  strength  only  to  look  at 
them. 

And  how  they  strained  their  necks 
against  the  yoke 

If  I but  spoke,  or  touched  them  with 
the  goad  ! 


They  were  my  friends ; and  when  Gloyd 
came  and  told  me 

They  were  all  drowned,  I could  have 
drowned  myself 

From  sheer  vexation;  and  I said  as 
much 

To  Gloyd  and  others. 

Martha.  Do  not  trust  John  Gloyd 
With  anything  you  would  not  have  re- 
peated. 

Corey.  As  I came  through  the  woods 
this  afternoon. 

Impatient  at  my  loss,  and  much  per- 
plexed 

With  all  that  I had  heard  there  in  the 
village. 

The  yellow  leaves  lit  up  the  trees  about 
me. 

Like  an  enchanted  palace,  and  I wished 
I knew  enough  of  magic  or  of  Witch- 
craft 

To  change  them  into  gold.  Then  sud- 
denly 

A tree  shook  down  some  crimson  leaves 
upon  me. 

Like  drops  of  blood,  and  in  the  path 
before  me 

Stood  Tituba  the  Indian,  the  old  crone. 

Martha.  Were  you  not  frightened  ? 

Corey.  No,  I do  not  think 

I know  the  meaning  of  that  word. 
Why  frightened  ? 

I am  not  one  of  those  who  think  the 
Lord 

Is  waiting  till  he  catches  them  some  day 
In  the  back  yard  alone  ! What  should 
I fear? 

She  started  from  the  bushes  by  the 
path, 

And  had  a basket  full  of  herbs  and  roots 
For  some  witch-broth  or  other, — the 
old  hag  ! 

Martha.  She  has  been  here  to-day. 

Corey.  With  hand  outstretched 
She  said  : “ Giles  Corey,  will  you  sign 
the  Book?” 

“ Avaunt ! ” I cried  : “ Get  thee  behind 
me,  Satan  ! ” 

At  which  she  laughed  and  left  me. 
But  a voice 

Was  whispering  in  my  ear  continually  : 
“ Self-murder  is  no  crime.  The  life  of 
man 

Is  his,  to  keep  it  or  to  throw  away  ! ” 


GILES  COREY  OF  THE  SALEM  FARMS. 


Martha.  ’T  was  a temptation  of  the 
Evil  One  ! 

Giles,  Giles ! why  will  you  harbor 
these  dark  thoughts  ? 

Corey  (rising).  I am  too  tired  to  talk. 
1 ’ll  go  to  bed. 

Martha.  First  tell  me  something 
about  Bridget  Bishop. 

How  did  she  look  ? You  saw  her  ? You 
were  there  ? 

Corey.  I ’ll  tell  you  that  to-morrow, 
not  to-night. 

I ’ll  go  to  bed. 

Martha.  First  let  us  pray  together. 

Corey.  I cannot  pray  to-night. 

Martha.  Say  the  Lord’s  Prayer, 

And  that  will  comfort  you. 

Corey.  I cannot  say, 

“As  we  forgive  those  that  have  sinned 
against  us,” 

When  I do  not  forgive  them. 

Martha  (kneeling  on  the  hearth)  • 
God  forgive  you  ! 

Corey.  I will  not  make  believe  ! I 
say,  to-night 

There’s  something  thwarts  me  when  I 
wish  to  pray. 

And  thrusts  into  my  mind,  instead  of 
prayers. 

Hate  and  revenge,  and  things  that  are 
not  prayers. 

Something  of  my  old  self,  — my  old, 
bad  life,  — 

And  the  old  Adam  in  me,  rises  up, 

And  will  not  let  me  pray.  I am  afraid 

The  Devil  hinders  me.  You  know  I say 

Just  what  I think,  and  nothing  more 
nor  less. 

And,  when  I pray,  my  heart  is  in  my 
prayer. 

I cannot  say  one  thing  and  mean 
another. 

If  I can’t  pray,  I will  not  make  believe  ! 

(Exit  Corey.  Martha  continues 
kneeling.) 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.  — Giles  Corey’s  kitchen. 
Morning.  Corey  and  Martha 
sitting  at  the  breakfast-table. 

Corey  (rising).  Well,  now  I ’ve  told 
you  all  I saw  and  heard 


183 

Of  Bridget  Bishop  ; and  I must  be  gone. 

Martha.  Don’t  go  into  the  village, 
Giles,  to-day. 

Last  night  you  came  back  tired  and  out 
of  humor. 

Corey.  Say,  angry  ; say,  right  angry. 
I was  never 

In  a more  devilish  temper  in  my  life. 

All  things  went  wrong  with  me. 

Martha.  You  were  much  vexed  ; 

So  don’t  go  to  the  village. 

Corey  (going).  No,  I won’t. 

I won’t  go  near  it.  We  are  going  to 
mow 

The  Ipswich  meadows  for  the  after- 
math. 

The  crop  of  sedge  and  rowens. 

Martha.  Stay  a moment. 

I want  to  tell  you  what  I dreamed  last 
night. 

Do  you  believe  in  dreams  ? 

Corey.  Why,  yes  and  no. 

When  they  come  true,  then  I believe  in 
them  ; 

When  they  come  false,  I don’t  believe 
in  them. 

But  let  me  hear.  What  did  you  dream 
about? 

Martha.  I dreamed  that  you  and  I 
were  both  in  prison  ; 

That  we  had  fetters  on  our  hands  and 
feet  ; 

That  we  were  taken  before  the  Magis- 
trates, 

And  tried  for  Witchcraft,  and  con- 
demned to  death  ! 

I wished  to  pray ; they  would  not  let 
me  pray  ; 

You  tried  to  comfort  me,  and  they  for- 
bade it. 

But  the  most  dreadful  thing  in  all  my 
dream 

Was  that  they  made  you  testify  against 
me  ! 

And  then  there  came  a kind  of  mist  be- 
tween us : 

I could  not  see  you  ; and  I woke  in  ter- 
ror. 

I never  was  more  thankful  in  my  life 

Than  when  I found  you  sleeping  at  my 
side  ! 

Corey  (with  tenderness).  It  was  our 
talk  last  night  that  made  you 
dream. 


184 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


I ’m  sorry  for  it.  I ’ll  control  myself 

Another  time,  and  keep  my  temper 
down  ! 

I do  not  like  such  dreams. — Remem- 
ber, Martha, 

I ’m  going  to  mow  the  Ipswich  River 
meadows  ; 

If  Gardner  comes,  you  ’ll  tell  him  where 
to  find  me.  \_Exii. 

Martha.  So  this  delusion  grows  from 
bad  to  worse. 

First,  a forsaken  and  forlorn  old  woman, 

Ragged  and  wretched,  and  without  a 
friend ; 

Then  something  higher.  Now  it ’s 
Bridget  Bishop  ; 

God  only  knows  whose  turn  it  will  be 
next ! 

The  Magistrates  are  blind,  the  people 
mad  ! 

If  they  would  only  seize  the  Afflicted 
Children, 

And  put  them  in  the  Workhouse,  where 
they  should  be. 

There ’d  be  an  end  of  all  this  wicked- 
ness. \_Exit. 


Scene  II.  — A street  in  Salem  Village 

Enter  Mather  ajid  Hathorne. 

Mather.  Yet  one  thing  troubles  me. 

Hathorne.  And  what  is  that  ? 

Alather.  May  not  the  Devil  take  the 
outward  shape 

Of  innocent  persons  ? Are  we  not  in 
danger. 

Perhaps,  of  punishing  some  who  are 
not  guilty? 

Hathortie.  As  I have  said,  we  do  not 
trust  alone 

To  spectral  evidence. 

Mather.  And  then  again. 

If  any  shall  be  put  to  death  for  Witch- 
craft, 

We  do  but  kill  the  body,  not  the  soul. 

The  Unclean  Spirits  that  possessed 
them  once 

Live  still,  to  enter  into  other  bodies. 

What  have  we  gained  ? Surely,  there ’s 
nothing  gained. 

Hathorne.  Doth  not  the  Scripture 
say,  “ Thou  shalt  not  suffer 

A Witch  to  live  ” ? 

Mather.  The  Scripture  sayeth  it. 


But  speaketh  to  the  Jews  ; and  we  are 
Christians. 

What  say  the  laws  of  England  ? 

Hathorne.  They  make  Witchcraft 

Felony  without  the  benefit  of  Clergy. 

Witches  are  burned  in  England.  You 
have  read  — 

For  you  read  all  things,  not  a book 
escapes  you  — 

The  famous  Demonology  of  King 
James? 

Mather.  A curious  volume.  I re- 
member also 

The  plot  of  the  Two  Hundred,  with 
one  Fian, 

The  Registrar  of  the  Devil,  at  their 
head. 

To  drown  his  Majesty  on  his  return 

From  Denmark;  how  they  sailed  in 
sieves  or  riddles 

Unto  North  Berwick  Kirk  in  Lothian, 

And,  landing  there,  danced  hand  in 
hand,  and  sang, 

“ Goodwife,  go  ye  before  ! goodwife,  go 
ye ! 

If  ye  ’ll  not  go  before,  goodwife,  let 
me  ! ” 


While  Geilis  Duncan  played  the 
Witches’  Reel 
Upon  a jews-harp. 

Hathorne.  Then  you  know  full  well 
The  English  law,  and  that  in  England 
Witches, 

When  lawfully  convicted  and  attainted. 
Are  put  to  death. 

Mather.  When  lawfully  convicted  ; 
That  is  the  point.  _ r 

Hathorne.  You  heard  the  evidence  \ 
Produced  before  us  yesterday  at  the  , 
trial 

Of  Bridget  Bishop. 

Mather.  One  of  the  Afflicted, 

I know,  bore  witness  to  the  apparition 
Of  ghosts  unto  the  spectre  of  this  Bishop, 
Saying,  “ You  murdered  us  ! ” of  the 
truth  whereof 

There  was  in  matter  of  fact  too  much 
suspicion. 

Hathorne.  And  when  she  cast  her 
eyes  on  the  Afflicted, 

They  were  struck  down  ; and  this  in 
such  a manner 

There  could  be  no  collusion  in  the 
business. 


GILES  COREY  OF  THE  SALEM  FARMS. 


And  when  the  accused  but  laid  her 
hand  upon  them, 

As  they  lay  in  their  swoons,  they  straight 
revived. 

Although  they  stirred  not  when  the 
others  touched  them. 

Mather.  What  most  convinced  me 
of  the  woman’s  guilt 
Was  finding  hidden  in  her  cellar  wall 
Those  poppets  made  of  rags,  with  head- 
less pins 

Stuck  into  them  point  outwards,  and 
whereof 

She  could  not  give  a reasonable  account. 

Hathorne.  When  you  shall  read  the 
testimony  given 

Before  the  Court  in  all  the  other  cases, 
I am  persuaded  you  will  find  the  proof 
No  less  conclusive  than  it  was  in  this. 
Come,  then,  vyith  me,  and  I will  tax 
your  patience 

With  reading  of  the  documents  so  far 
As  may  convince  you  that  these  sorcer- 
ers 

Are  lawfully  convicted  and  attainted. 
Like  doubting  Thomas,  you  shall  lay 
your  hand 

Upon  these  wounds,  and  you  will  doubt 
no  more.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  III.  — A room  in  Corey’s 

house.  Martha  and  two  Deacons 

of  the  church. 

Martha.  Be  seated.  I am  glad  to 
see  you  here. 

I know  what  you  are  come  for.  You 
are  come 

To  question  me,  and  learn  from  my 
own  lips 

If  I have  any  dealings  with  the  Devil ; 
In  short,  if  I ’m  a Witch. 

Deacon  {sitting  down).  Such  is  our 
purpose. 

How  could  you  know  beforehand  why 
we  came  ? 

Martha.  ’T  was  only  a surmise. 

Deacon.  We  came  to  ask  you. 

You  being  with  us  in  church  covenant. 
What  part  you  have,  if  any,  in  these 
matters. 

Martha.  And  I make  answer,  No 
part  whatsoever. 

I am  a farmer’s  wife,  a working  woman  ; 


You  see  my  spinning-wheel,  you  see  my 
loom. 

You  know  the  duties  of  a farmer’s  wife. 
And  are  not  ignorant  that  my  life  among 
you 

Has  been  without  reproach  until  this 
day. 

Is  it  not  true? 

Deacon.  So  much  we  ’re  bound  to 
own  : 

And  say  it  frankly,  and  without  reserve. 

Martha.  I ’ve  heard  the  idle  tales 
that  are  abroad  ; 

I ’ve  heard  it  whispered  that  I am  a 
Witch ; 

I cannot  help  it.  I do  not  believe 
In  any  Witchcraft.  It  is  a delusion. 

Deacofi.  How  can  you  say  that  it  is 
a delusion. 

When  all  our  learned  and  good  men 
believe  it?  — 

Our  Ministers  and  worshipful  Magis- 
trates? 

Martha.  Their  eyes  are  blinded,  and 
see  not  the  truth. 

Perhaps  one  day  they  will  be  open  to  it. 

Deacon.  You  answer  boldly.  The 
Afflicted  Children 
Say  you  appeared  to  them. 

Martha.  And  did  they  say 

What  clothes  I came  in? 

Deacon.  No,  they  could  not  tell. 
They  said  that  you  foresaw  our  visit  here, 
And  blinded  them,  so  that  they  could 
not  see 

The  clothes  you  wore. 

Martha.  The  cunning,  crafty  girls  ! 
I say  to  you,  in  all  sincerity, 

I never  have  appeared  to  any  one 
In  my  own  person.  If  the  Devil  takes 
My  shape  to  hurt  these  children,  or 
afflict  them, 

I am  not  guilty  of  it.  And  I say 
It ’s  all  a mere  delusion  of  the  senses. 

Deacon.  I greatly  fear  that  you  will 
find  too  late 
It  is  not  so. 

Martha  {rising).  They  do  accuse  me 
falsely. 

It  is  delusion,  or  it  is  deceit. 

There  is  a story  in  the  ancient  Scriptures 
Which  much  I wonder  comes  not  to 
your  minds. 

Let  me  repeat  it  to  you. 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


1 86 

Deacon.  We  will  hear  it. 

Martha.  It  came  to  pass  that  Na- 
both had  a vineyard 
Hard  by  the  palace  of  the  King  called 
Ahab. 

And  Ahab,  King  of  Israel,  spake  to 
Naboth, 

And  said  to  him,  Give  unto  me  thy 
vineyard. 

That  I may  have  it  for  a garden  of 
herbs. 

And  I will  give  a better  vineyard  for  it, 
Or,  if  it  seenieth  good  to  thee,  its  worth 
In  money.  And  then  Naboth  said  to 
Ahab, 

The  Lord  forbid  it  me  that  I should  give 
The  inheritance  of  my  fathers  unto  thee. 
And  Ahab  came  into  his  house  dis- 
pleased 

And  heavy  at  the  words  which  Naboth 
spake. 

And  laid  him  down  upon  his  bed,  and 
turned 

His  face  away  ; and  he  would  eat  no 
bread. 

And  Jezebel,  the  wife  of  Ahab,  came 
And  said  to  him.  Why  is  thy  spirit  sad? 
And  he  said  unto  her.  Because  I spake 
To  Naboth,  to  the  Jezreelite,  and  said. 
Give  me  thy  vineyard  ; and  he  an- 
swered, saying, 

I will  not  give  my  vineyard  unto  thee. 
And  Jezebel,  the  wife  of  Ahab,  said. 
Dost  thou  not  rule  the  realm  of  Israel  ? 
Arise,  eat  bread,  and  let  thy  heart  be 
merry  ; 

I will  give  Naboth’s  vineyard  unto  thee. 
So  she  wrote  letters  in  King  Ahab’s 
name. 

And  sealed  them  with  his  seal,  and  sent 
the  letters 

Unto  the  elders  that  were  in  his  city 
Dwelling  with  Naboth,  and  unto  the 
nobles  ; 

And  in  the  letters  wrote,  Proclaim  a 
fast ; 

And  set  this  Naboth  high  among  the 
people. 

And  set  two  men,  the  sons  of  Belial, 
Before  him,  to  bear  witness  and  to  say. 
Thou  didst  blaspheme  against  God  and 
the  King  ; 

And  carry  him  out  and  stone  him,  that 
he  die ! 


And  the  elders  and  the  nobles  of  the 
city 

Did  even  as  Jezebel,  the  wife  of  Ahab, 
Had  sent  to  them  and  written  in  the 
letters. 

And  then  it  came  to  pass,  when  Ahab 
heard 

Naboth  was  dead,  that  Ahab  rose  to  go 
Down  unto  Naboth’s  vineyard,  and  to 
take 

Possession  of  it.  And  the  word  of 
God 

Came  to  Elijah,  saying  to  him.  Arise, 
Go  down  to  meet  the  King  of  Israel 
In  Naboth’s  vineyard,  whither  he  hath 
gone 

To  take  possession.  Thou  shalt  speak 
to  him, 

Saying,  Thus  saith  the  Lord  ! What ! 
hast  thou  killed 

And  also  taken  possession?  In  the 
place 

Wherein  the  dogs  have  licked  the  blood 
of  Naboth 

Shall  the  dogs  lick  thy  blood, — ay,  even 
thine  ! 

{Both)  o/ the  Deacons  start  from  their 
seats.) 

And  Ahab  then,  the  King  of  Israel, 
Said,  Hast  thou  found  me,  O mine  en- 
emy ? 

Elijah  the  Prophet  answered,  I have 
found  thee  ! 

So  will  it  be  with  those  who  have  stirred 

up 

The  Sons  of  Belial  here  to  bear  false 
witness 

And  swear  away  the  lives  of  innocent 
people  : 

Their  enemy  will  find  them  out  at  last. 
The  Prophet’s  voice  will  thunder,  I 
have  found  thee  ! [Exeunt. 

Scene  IV.—  Meadows  on  Ipswich 
River.  Corey  and  his  tnen  mow- 
ing ; Corey  in  advance. 

Corey.  Well  done,  my  men.  You 
see,  I lead  the  field  ! 

I ’m  an  old  man,  but  I can  swing  a scythe 
Better  than  most  of  you,  though  you  be 
younger. 

[Hangs  his  scythe  upon  a tree!) 


GILES  COREY  OF  THE  SALEM  FARMS. 


Gloyd  {aside  to  the  others).  How 
strong  he  is  ! It ’s  supernatural. 

No  man  so  old  as  he  is  has  such  strength. 

The  Devil  helps  him  ! 

Corey  {wiping  his  forehead).  Now 
we  ’ll  rest  awhile, 

And  take  our  nooning.  What ’s  the 
matter  with  you? 

You  are  not  angry  with  me, — are  you, 
Gloyd  ? 

Come,  come,  we  will  not  quarrel.  Let ’s 
be  friends. 

It ’s  an  old  story,  that  the  Raven  said, 

“Read  the  Third  of  Colossians  and  fif- 
teenth.” 

Gloyd.  You  ’re  handier  at  the  scythe, 
but  I can  beat  you 

At  wrestling. 

Corey.  Well,  perhaps  so.  I don’t 
know. 

I never  wrestled  with  you.  Why,  you 
’re  vexed  ! 

Come,  come,  don’t  bear  a grudge. 

Gloyd.  You  are  afraid. 

Corey.  What  should  I be  afraid  of? 
All  bear  witness 

The  challenge  comes  from  him.  Now, 
then,  my  man. 

{They  wrestle,  and  Gloyd  is  thrown.) 

One  of  the  Men.  That ’s  a fair  fall. 

Another.  ’T  was  nothing  but  a foil ! 

Others.  You ’ve  hurt  him  ! 

Corey  {helping  Gloyd  rise).  No; 
this  meadow-land  is  soft. 

You  ’re  not  hurt, — are  you,  Gloyd  ? 

Gloyd  {rising).  No,  not  much  hurt  ! 

Corey.  Well,  then,  shake  hands  ; 
and  there ’s  an  end  of  it. 

How  do  you  like  that  Cornish  hug,  my 
lad  ? 

And  now  we’ll  see  what ’s  in  our  basket 
here. 

Gloyd  {aside).  The  Devil  and  all  his 
imps  are  in  that  man  ! 

The  clutch  of  his  ten  fingers  burns  like 
fire  ! 

Corey  {reverentially  taking  off  his 
hat).  God  bless  the  food  he  hath 
provided  for  us. 

And  make  us  thankful  for  it,  for  Christ’s 
sake  ! 

{He  lifts  up  a keg  of  cider,  and  drinks 
from  it.) 


18/ 

Gloyd.  Do  you  see  that  ? Don’t  tell 
me  it ’s  not  Witchcraft. 

Two  of  us  could  not  lift  that  cask  as  he 
does  ! 

( Corey  puts  down  the  keg,  and  opens  a 

basket.  A voice  is  heard  calling  i) 

Voice.  Ho  ! Corey,  Corey  ! 

Corey.  What  is  that  ? I surely 

Heard  some  one  calling  me  by  name  ! 

V oice.  Giles  Corey  ! 

{Enter  a hoy,  running,  and  out  of 
breath.) 

Boy.  Is  Master  Corey  here  ? 

Corey.  Yes,  here  I am. 

Boy.  O Master  Corey  I 

Corey.  _ Well  ? 

Boy.  Your  wife  — your  wife  — 

Corey.  What’s  happened  to  my  wife? 

Boy.  She ’s  sent  to  prison  ! 

Corey.  The  dream  ! the  dream  ! O 
God,  be  merciful  ! 

Boy.  She  sent  me  here  to  tell  you. 

Corey  {putting  on  his  jacket). 
Where ’s  my  horse  ? 

Don’t  stand  there  staring,  fellows. 
Where ’s  my  horse  ? 

{Exit  Corey. 

Gloyd-  Under  the  trees  there.  Run, 
old  man,  run,  run  ! 

You ’ve  got  some  one  to  wrestle  with  you 
now 

Who  ’ll  trip  your  heels  up,  with  your 
Cornish  hug. 

If  there ’s  a Devil,  he  has  got  you  now. 

Ah,  there  he  goes  ! His  horse  is  snort- 
ing fire ! 

One  of  the  Men.  John  Gloyd,  don’t 
talk  so  ! It ’s  a shame  to  talk  so  ! 

He ’s  a good  master,  though  you  quar- 
rel with  him. 

Gloyd.  If  hard  work  and  low  wages 
make  good  masters. 

Then  he  is  one.  But  I think  otherwise. 

Come,  let  us  have  our  dinner  and  be 
merry, 

And  talk  about  the  old  man  and  the 
Witches. 

I know  some  stories  that  will  make  you 
laugh. 

{They  sit  down  on  the  grass,  and  eat.) 


i88 


THE  NEIV-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


Now  there  are  Goody  Cloyse  and  Goody 
Good, 

Who  have  not  got  a decent  tooth  be- 
tween them, 

And  yet  these  children  — the  Afflicted 
Children  — 

Say  that  they  bite  them,  and  show  marks 
of  teeth 

Upon  their  arms  ! 

0?te  of  the  Men.  That  makes  the 
wonder  greater. 

That’s  Witchcraft.  Why,  if  they  had 
• teeth  like  yours, 

’T  would  be  no  wonder  if  the  girls  were 
bitten  ! 

Gloyd.  And  then  those  ghosts  that 
come  out  of  their  graves 
And  cry,“  You  murdered  us  ! you  mur- 
dered us  ! ” 

One  of  the  Men.  And  all  those  Appa- 
ritions that  stick  pins 
Into  the  flesh  of  the  Afflicted  Children  ! 

Gloyd.  O those  Afflicted  Children  ! 
they  know  well 

Where  the  pins  come  from.  I can  tell 
you  that. 

And  there ’s  old  Corey,  he  has  got  a 
horseshoe 

Nailed  on  his  doorstep  to  keep  off  the 
Witches, 

And  all  the  same  his  wife  has  gone  to 
prison. 

One  of  the  Men.  O,  she ’s  no  Witch. 

I ’ll  swear  that  Goodwife  Corey 
Never  did  harm  to  any  living  creature. 
She ’s  a good  woman,  if  there  ever  was 
one. 

Gloyd.  Well,  we  shall  see.  As  for 
that  Bridget  Bishop, 

She  has  been  tried  before  ; some  years 
ago 

A negro  testified  he  saw  her  shape 
Sitting  upon  the  rafters  in  a barn. 

And  holding  in  its  hand  an  egg ; and 
while 

He  went  to  fetch  his  pitchfork,  she  had 
vanished. 

And  now  be  quiet,  will  you  ? I am  tired. 
And  want  to  sleep  here  on  the  grass  a 
little. 

(They  stretch  themselves  on  the  grass  ) 

One  of  the  Men.  There  may  be 
Witches  riding  through  the  air 


Over  our  heads  on  broomsticks  at  this 
moment. 

Bound  for  some  Satan’s  Sabbath  in  the 
woods 

To  be  baptized. 

Gloyd.  I wish  they ’d  take 

you  with  them, 

And  hold  you  under  water,  head  and 
ears. 

Till  you  were  drowned  ; and  that  would 
stop  your  talking. 

If  nothing  else  will.  Let  m e sleep,  I say. 

ACT  IV. 

Scene  I.  — The  Green  in  front  of  the 
village  Meetbig-hoiise.  A n excited 
crowd  gathering.  Enter  John 
Gloyd. 

A Farmer.  Who  will  be  tried  to-day? 
A Second.  ' I do  not  know. 

Here  is  John  Gloyd.  Ask  him  ; he 
knows. 

Farmer.  John  Gloyd, 

Whose  turn  is  it  to  day? 

Gloyd.  It ’s  Goodwife  Corey’s. 
Farmer.  Giles  Corey’s  wife  ? 

Gloyd.  The  same.  She  is  not  mine. 

It  will  go  hard  with  her  with  all  her 
praying. 

The  hypocrite  ! She ’s  always  on  her 
knees  ; 

But  she  prays  to  the  Devil  when  she 
prays. 

Let  us  go  in. 

(A  trumpet  blows.) 

Farmer.  Here  come  the  Magistrates. 
Second  Far7ner.  Who ’s  the  tall 
man  in  front  ? 

Gloyd.  O,  that  is  Hathorne, 

A Justice  of  the  Court,  and  Quarter- 
master 

In  the  Three  County  Troop.  He’ll 
sift  the  matter. 

That ’s  Corwin  with  him  ; and  the  man 
in  black 

Is  Cotton  Mather,  Minister  of  Boston. 

(Enter  Hathorne  and  other  Magis- 
trates on  horseback,  followed  by  the 
Sheriff,  constables,  atid  attendants 
on  foot.  The  Magistrates  disi7tou7it, 
a7td  enter  the  Meeting-house,  with 
the  rest.) 


GILES  COREY  OF  THE  SALE II  FARMS. 


Farmer.  The  Meeting-house 
I never  saw 

So  great  a crowd  before. 

Gloyd.  No  matter.  Come. 

We  shall  find  room  enough  by  elbow- 
ing 

Our  way  among  them.  Put  your 
shoulder  to  it. 

Farmer.  There  were  not  half  so  many 
at  the  trial 

Of  Goodwife  Bishop.  / 

Gloyd.  Keep  close  after  me. 

I ’ll  find  a place  for  you.  They  ’ll  want 
me  there. 

I am  a friend  of  Corey’s,  as  you  know. 

And  he  can’t  do  without  me  just  at  pres- 
ent. {Exeufit. 

Scene  II.  — Interior  of  the  Meeting- 
house. Mather  and'  the  Magis- 
trates seated  in  front  of  the  pulpit. 
Before  them  a raised  platform. 
Martha  in  chains.  Corey  near 
her.  Mary  Walcot  in  a chair. 
A crowd  of  spectators,  atnong 
them  Gloyd.  Confiision  and 
mnrtrmrs  during  the  scene. 

Hathorne.  Call  Martha  Corey. 
Martha.  I am  here. 

Hathorne.  Cbme  forward. 

{She  ascends  the  platformi) 

The  Jurors  of  our  Sovereign  Lord  and 
Lady 

The  King  and  Queen,  here  present,  do 
accuse  you 

Of  having  on  the  tenth  of  June  last 
past. 

And  divers  other  times  before  and  after, 

Wickedly  used  and  practised  certain 
arts 

Called  Witchcrafts,  Sorceries,  and  In- 
cantations, 

Against  one  Mary  Walcot,  single  wo- 
man, 

Of  Salem  Village  ; by  which  wicked 
arts 

The  aforesaid  Mary  Walcot  was  tor- 
mented. 

Tortured,  afflicted,  pined,  consumed, 
and  wasted, 

Against  the  peace  of  our  Sovereign 
Lord  and  Lady 


189 

The  King  and  Queen,  as  well  as  of  the 
Statute 

Made  and  provided  in  that  case.  What 
say  you  ? 

Martha.  Before  I answer,  give  me 
leave  to  pray. 

Hcdhorne.  W e have  not  sent  for  you, 
nor  are  we  here. 

To  hear  you  pray,  but  to  examine  you 
In  whatsoever  is  alleged  against  you. 
Why  do  you  hurt  this  person  ? 

Martha.  I do  not. 

I am  not  guilty  of  the  charge  against 
me. 

Mary.  Avoid,  she-devil  ! You  tor- 
ment me  now  ! 

Avoid,  avoid,  Witch  ! 

Martha.  I am  innocent. 

I never  had  to  do  with  any  Witchcraft 
Since  I was  born.  I am  a gospel  wo- 
man. 

Mary.  You  are  a gospel  Witch  ! 

Martha  {clasping  her  hands).  Ah 
me  ! ah  me  ! 

O,  give  me  leave  to  pray  ! 

Mary  {stretching  otd  her  hands). 
She  hurts  me  now. 

See,  she  has  pinched  my  hands  ! 

Hathorne.  Who  made  these  marks 
Upon  her  hands? 

Martha.  I do  not  know.  I stand 
Apart  from  her.  I did  not  touch  her 
hands. 

Hathorne.  Who  hurt  her  then? 

Martha.  I know  not. 

H athorne.  Do  you  think 

She  is  bewitched  ? 

Martha.  Indeed  I do  not  think  so. 
I am  no  Witch,  and  have  no  faith  in 
Witches. 

Hathorne.  Then  answer  me  : When 
certain  persons  came 
To  see  you  yesterday,  how  did  you  know 
Beforehand  why  they  came  ? 

Martha.  I had  had  speech, 

The  children  said  I hurt  them,  and  I 
thought 

These  people  came  to  question  me 
about  it. 

Hathor7ie.  How  did  you  know  the 
children  had  been  told 
To  note  the  clothes  you  wore  ? 

Martha.  My  husband  told  me 

What  others  said  about  it. 


;9° 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


Hathorne.  Goodman  Corey, 

Say,  did  you  tell  her  ? 

Corey.  I must  speak  the  truth  ; 

I did  not  tell  her.  It  was  some  one 
else. 

Hathorne.  Did  you  not  say  your 
husband  told  you  so  ? 

How  dare  you  tell  a He  in  this  assembly  ? 
Who  told  you  of  the  clothes?  Confess 
the  truth. 


(Martha  hites  her  Ups,  and  is  silent.) 
You  bite  your  lips,  but  do  not  answer 
me  ! 

Mary.  Ah,  she  is  biting  me  ! Avoid, 
avoid  ! 

Hathorne.  You  said  your  husband 
told  you. 

Martha.  Yes,  he  told  me 

The  children  said  I troubled  them. 

Hathor)ie.  Then  tell  me, 

Why  do  you  trouble  them  ? 

Martha.  I have  denied  it. 

Mary.  She  threatened  me  ; stabbed 
at  me  with  her  spindle  ; 

And,  when  my  brother  thrust  her  with 
his  sword. 

He  tore  her  gown,  and  cut  a piece  away. 
Here  are  they  both,  the  spindle  and  the 
cloth. 

{Shows  them.) 


Hathorne.  And  there  are  persons 
here  who  know  the  truth 
Of  what  has  now  been  said.  What 
■ answer  make  you  ? 

Martha.  I make  no  answer.  Give 
me  leave  to  pray. 

Hathorne.  Whom  would  you  .pray 
to  ? 

Martha.  To  my  God  and  Father. 

Hathorne.  Who  is  your  God  and 
Father  ? 

Martha.  The  Almighty  ! 

Hathorne.  Doth  he  you  pray  to  say 
that  he  is  God  ? 

It  is  the  Prince  of  Darkness,  and  not 
God. 

Mary.  There  is  a dark  shape  whis- 
pering in  her  ear. 

Hathorne.  What  does  he  say  to  you  ? 

Martha.  _ I see  no  shape. 

Hathorne.  Did  you  not  hear  it  whis- 
per ? 

Martha.  I heard  nothing. 


Mary.  What  torture  ! Ah,  what 
agony  I suffer  ! 

{Falls  into  a swoon.) 

Hathorne.  You  see  this  woman  can- 
not stand  before  you. 

If  you  would  look  for  mercy,  you  must 
look 

In  God’s  way,  by  confession  of  your 
guilt. 

Why  does  your  spectre  haunt  and  hurt 
this  person  ? 

Martha.  I do  not  know.  He  who 
appeared  of  old 

In  Samuel’s  shape,  a saint  and  glorified. 

May  come  in  whatsoever  shape  he 
chooses. 

I cannot  help  it.  I am  sick  at  heart  ! 

Corey.  O Martha,  Martha  ! let  me 
hold  your  hand. 

Hathorne.  No  : stand  aside,  old 
man. 

Mary  {starting  up).  Look  there  ! 
Look  there  ! 

I see  a little  bird,  a yellow  bird. 

Perched  on  her  finger ; and  it  pecks  at 
me. 

Ah,  it  will  tear  mine  eyes  out ! 

Martha.  I see  nothing. 

Hathorne.  ’T  is  the  Familiar  Spirit 
that  attends  her. 

Mary.  Now  it  has  flown  away.  It 
sits  up  there 

Upon  the  rafters.  It  is  gone  ; is  van- 
ished. 

Martha.  Giles,  wipe  these  tears  of 
anger  from  mine  eyes. 

Wipe  the  sweat  from  my  forehead.  I 
am  faint. 

{She  leans  against  the  railing.) 

Mary.  O,  she  is  crushing  me  with 
all  her  weight  ! 

Hathorne.  Did  you  not  carry  once 
the  Devil’s  Book 

To  this  young  woman  ? 

Martha.  Never. 

Hathorne.  Have  you  signed  it. 

Or  touched  it?  _ ^ 

.Martha.  No  ; I never  saw  it.  < 

Hathorne.  Did  you  not  scourge  her 
with  an  iron  rod  ? 

Martha.  No,  I did  not.  If  any  Evil 
Spirit 


GILES  COREY  OF  THE  SALEM  FARMS. 


igi 


Has  taken  my  shape  to  do  these  evil 
deeds, 

I cannot  help  it.  I am  innocent. 

Hathorne.  Did  you  not  say  the 
Magistrates  were  blind  ? 

That  you  would  open  their  eyes  ? 

I Martha  {with  a scornful  laugh). 
Yes,  I said  that  ; 

If  you  call  me  a sorceress,  you  are  blind  ! 

If  you  accuse  the  innocent,  you  are 
blind  ! 

Can  the  innocent  be  guilty  ? 

Hathorne.  Did  you  not 

On  one  occasion  hide  your  husband’s 
saddle 

To  hinder  him  from  coming  to  the  Ses- 
sions ? 

Martha.  I thought  it  was  a folly  in  a 
farmer 

To  waste  his  time  pursuing  such  illu- 
sions. 

Hathorne.  What  was  the  bird  that 
this  young  woman  saw 

Just  now  upon  your  hand  ? 

Martha.  I know  no  bird. 

Hathorne.  Have  you  not  dealt  with 
a Familiar  Spirit  ? 

Martha.  No,  never,  never  ! 

Hathorne.  What  then  was  the  Book 

You  showed  to  this  young  woman,  and 
besought  her 

To  write  in  it  ? 

Martha.  Where  should  I have 
a book  ? 

I showed  her  none,  nor  have  none. 

Mary.  The  next  Sabbath 

Is  the  Communion-Day,  but  Martha 
Corey 

Will  not  be  there  ! 

Martha.  Ah,  you  are  all  against  me. 

What  can  I do  or  say  ? 

Hathorne.  You  can  confess. 

Martha.  No,  I cannot,  for  I am  in- 
nocent. 

Hathorne.  We  have  the  proof  of 
many  witnesses 

That  you  are  guilty. 

Martha.  Give  me  leave  to  speak. 

Will  you  condemn  me  on  such  evi- 
dence,— 

You  who  have  known  me  for  so  many 
years  ? 

Will  you  condemn  me  in  this  house  of 
God, 


Where  I so  long  have  worshipped  with 
you  all  ? 

Where  I have  eaten  the  bread  and 
drunk  the  wine 

So  many  times  at  our  Lord’s  Table  with 
you  ? 

Bear  witness,  you  that  hear  me  ; you  all 
know 

That  I have  led  a blameless  life  among 
you, 

That  never  any  whisper  of  suspicion 

Was  breathed  against  me  till  this  accu- 
sation. 

And  shall  this  count  for  nothing  ? Will 
you  take 

My  life  away  from  me,  because  this  girl, 

Who  is  distraught,  and  not  in  her  right 
mind, 

Accuses  me  of  things  I blush  to  name  ? 

Hathorne.  What!  is  it  not  enough? 
Would  you  hear  more? 

Giles  Corey  1 

Corey.  I am  here. 

Hathorne.  Come  forward,  then. 

(Corey  ascends  the  platformi) 

Is  it  not  true,  that  on  a certain  night 

You  were  impeded  strangely  in  your 
prayers? 

That  something  hindered  you?  and 
that  you  left 

This  woman  here,  your  wife,  kneeling 
alone 

Upon  the  hearth  ? 

Corey.  Yes  ; I cannot  deny  it. 

Hathorne.  Did  you  not  say  the  Devil 
hindered  you  ? 

Corey.  I think  I said  some  words  to 
• that  effect. 

Hathorne.  Is  it  not  true,  that  four- 
teen head  of  cattle. 

To  you  belonging,  broke  from  their  en- 
closure 

And  leaped  into  the  river,  and  were 
drowned  ? 

Corey.  It  is  most  true.  , 

Hathorne.  And  did  you  not  then  say 

That  they  were  overlooked  ? 

Corey.  So  much  I said. 

I see  ; they  ’re  drawing  round  me  closer, 
closer, 

A net  I cannot  break,  cannot  escape 
from  ! (Aside.) 

Hathorne.  Who  did  these  things  ? 


192 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


Corey.  T do  not  know  who  did  them. 

Hathorne.  Then  I will  tell  you.  It 
is  some  one  near  you  ; 

You  see  her  now  ; this  woman,  your 
own  wife. 

Corey.  I call  the  heavensto  witness, 
it  is  false  ! 

She  never  harmed  ine,neverhinderedme 

In  anything  but  what  I should  not  do. 

And  I bear  witness  in  the  sight  of 
heaven, 

And  in  God’s  house  here,  that  I never 
knew  her 

As  otherwise  than  patient,  brave,  and 
true, 

Faithful,  forgiving,  full  of  charity, 

A virtuous  and  industrious  and  good 
wife  ! 

Hathorne.  Tut,  tut,  man  ; do  not 
rant  so  in  your  speech  ; 

You  are  a witness,  not  an  advocate  ! 

Here,  Sheriff,  take  this  woman  back  to 
prison. 

Martha.  O Giles,  this  day  you ’ve 
sworn  away  my  life  ! 

Mary.  Go,  go  and  join  the  Witches 
at  the  door. 

Do  you  not  hear  the  drum  ? Do  you 
not  see  them  ? 

Go  quick.  They  *re  waiting  for  you. 
You  are  late. 

t^Exit  Marth.\  ; Co’R^'f  following .) 

Corey.  The  dream  ! the  dream  ! the 
dream  ! 

Hathorne.  What  does  he  say  ? 

Giles  Corey,  go  not  hence.  You  are 
yourself 

Accused  of  Witchcraft  and  of  Sorcery 

By  many  witnesses.  Say.areyou  guilty  ? 

Corey.  I know  my  death  is  foreor- 
dained by  you,  — 

Mine  and  my  wife’s.  Therefore  I will 
not  answer. 

{^During  the  rest  of  the  scene  he  remains 
silent.') 

Hathorne.  Do  you  refuse  to  plead? — 
’ t were  better  for  you 

To  make  confession,  or  to  plead  Not 
Guilty. — 

Do  you  not  hear  me  ? — Answer,  are 
you  guilty? 

Do  you  not  know  a heavier  doom  awaits 
you, 


If  you  refuse  to  plead,  than  if  found 
guilty  ? 

Where  is  John  Gloyd? 

Gloydifoming  forward).  Here  am  I. 

Hathortie.  Tell  the  Court ; 

Have  you  not  seen  the  supernatural  power 

Of  this  old  man  ? Have  you  not  seen 
him  do 

Strange  feats  of  strength  ? 

Gloyd.  I ’ve  seen  him  lead  the  field. 

On  a hot  day,  in  mowing,  and  against 

Us  younger  men  ; and  I have  wrestled 
with  him. 

He  threw  me  like  a feather.  I have 
seen  him 

Lift  up  a barrel  with  his  single  hands, 

Which  two  strong  men  could  hardly  lift 
together. 

And,  holding  it  above  his  head,  drink 
from  it. 

Hathorne.  That  is  enough  ; we  need 
not  question  further. 

What  answ  er  do  you  make  to  this,  Giles 
Corey  ? 

Mary.  See  there  ! See  there  ! 

Hathorne.  What  is  it  ? I see  nothing. 

Mary.  Look!  Look!  It  is  the  ghost 
of  Robert  Goodell, 

Whom  fifteen  years  ago  this  man  did 
murder 

By  stamping  on  his  body  ! In  his 
shroud 

He  comes  here  to  bear  witness  to  the 
crime  ! 

( The  crowd  shrinks  back  from  Corey 
in  horror.) 

Hathorne.  Ghosts  of  the  dead  and 
voices  of  the  living 

Bear  witness  to  your  guilt,  and  you 
must  die  ! 

It  might  have  been  an  easier  death. 
Your  doom 

Will  be  on  your  owm  head,  and  not  on 
ours. 

Twice  more  will  you  be  questioned  of 
these  things ; 

Twice  more  have  room  to  plead  or  to 
confess. 

If  you  are  contumacious  to  the  Court, 

And  if,  when  questioned,  you  refuse  to 
answer. 

Then  by  the  Statute  you  will  be  con- 
demned 


GILES  COREY  OF  THE  SALEM  FARMS. 


193 


To  the  peine  forte  et  dure  t To  have 
your  body 

Pressed  by  great  weights  until  you  shall 
be  dead  ! 

And  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your 
soul  ! 

ACT  V. 

Scene  I.  — Corey’s  farm  as  in  A ct  II. 

Scene  i.  Richard  Gardner, 

looking  round  him. 

Gardner.  Here  stands  the  house  as 
I remember  it, 

The  four  tall  poplar-trees  before  the 
door; 

The  house,  the  barn,  the  orchard,  and 
the  well, 

With  its  moss-covered  bucket  and  its 
trough  ; 

The  garden,  with  its  hedge  of  currant- 
bushes  ; 

The  woods,  the  harvest-fields  ; and,  far 
beyond. 

The  pleasant  landscape  stretching  to  the 
sea. 

But  everything  is  silent  and  deserted  ! 

No  bleat  of  flocks,  no  bellowing  of  herds, 

No  sound  of  flails,  that  should  be  beat- 
ing now ; 

Nor  man  nor  beast  astir.  What  can 
this  mean  ? 

{^Knocks  at  the  door.) 

What  ho  ! Giles  Corey  ! Hillo-ho  ! Giles 
Corey ! — 

No  answer  but  the  echo  from  the  barn. 

And  the  ill-omened  cawing  of  the  crow, 

That  yonder  wings  his  flight  across  the 
fields. 

As  if  he  scented  carrion  in  the  air. 

{Enter  Tituba  with  a basket.) 

What  woman ’s  this,  that,  like  an  appa- 
rition. 

Haunts  this  deserted  homestead  in 
broad  day? 

Woman,  who  are  you? 

Tituba.  I am  Tituba. 

I am  John  Indian’s  wife.  I am  a 
Witch. 

Gardner.  What  are  you  doing  here? 

Tituba.  I ’m  gathering  herbs,  — 

Cinquefoil,  and  saxifrage,  and  penny- 
royal. 


Gardner  {looking  at  the  herbs) . This 
is  not  cinquefoil,  it  is  deadly 
nightshade  ! 

This  is  not  saxifrage,  but  hellebore  ! 

This  is  not  pennyroyal,  it  is  henbane  ! 

Do  you  come  here  to  poison  these  good 
people  ? 

Tituba.  I get  these  for  the  Doctor, 
in  the  Village. 

Beware  of  Tituba.  I pinch  the  children ; 

Make  little  poppets  and  stick  pins  in 
them. 

And  then  the  children  cry  out  they  are 
pricked. 

The  Black  Dog  came  to  me,  and  said, 
“ Serve  me  ! ” 

I was  afraid.  He  made  me  hurt  the 
children. 

Gardner.  Poor  soul  ! She ’s  crazed, 
with  all  these  Devil’s  doings. 

Tituba.  Will  you,  sir,  sign  the  Book  ? 

Gardner.  No,  I ’ll  not  sign  it. 

Where  is  Giles  Corey  ? Do  you  know 
Giles  Corey  ? 

Tituba.  He ’s  safe  enough.  He ’s 
down  there  in  the  prison. 

Gardner.  Corey  in  prison  ? What 
is  he  accused  of? 

Tituba.  Giles  Corey  and  Martha  Co- 
rey are  in  prison 

Down  there  in  Salem  Village.  Both 
are  Witches. 

She  came  to  me  and  whispered,  “ Kill 
the  children  ! ” 

Both  signed  the  Book  ! 

Gardner.  Begone,  you 

imp  of  darkness  ! 

You  Devil’s  dam  I 

Tituba.  Beware  of  Tituba  ! 

[Exit. 

Gardner.  How  often  out  at  sea  on 
stormy  nights. 

When  the  waves  thundered  round  me, 
and  the  wind 

Bellowed,  and  beat  the  canvas,  and  my 
ship 

Clove  through  the  solid  darkness,  like 
a wedge, 

I ’ve  thought  of  him,  upon  his  pleasant 
farm. 

Living  in  quiet  with  his  thrifty  house- 
wife. 

And  envied  him,  and  wished  his  fate 
were  mine  ! 


194 


THE  NEW-ENGLAND  TRAGEDIES. 


And  now  I find  him  shipwrecked  ut- 
terly, 

Drifting  upon  this  sea  of  sorceries, 

And  lost,  perhaps,  beyond  all  aid  of 
man  ! [Exit. 

Scene  II. — The  prison.  Giles  Co- 
rey at  a table  on  which  are  some 
papers. 

Corey.  Now  I have  done  with  earth 
and  all  its  cares  ; 

I give  my  worldly  goods  to  my  dear 
children  ; 

My  body  I bequeath  to  my  tormentors. 

And  my  immortal  soul  to  Him  who 
made  it. 

O God  ! who  in  thy  wisdom  dost  afflict 
me 

With  an  affliction  greater  than  most 
men 

Have  ever  yet  endured  or  shall  endure, 

Suffer  me  not  in  this  last  bitter  hour 

For  any  pains  of  death  to  fall  from  thee  1 
(Martha  is  heard  singing.) 

Arise,  O righteous  Lord  1 
And  disappoint  my  foes  ; 

They  are  but  thine  avenging  sword. 
Whose  wounds  are  swift  to  close. 

Corey.  Hark,  hark  ! it  is  her  voice  ! 
She  is  not  dead  ! 

She  lives  ! I am  not  utterly  forsaken  ! 
(Martha,  singing.) 

By  thine  abounding  grace 
And  mercies  multiplied, 

I shall  awake,  and  see  thy  face  ; 

I shall  be  satisfied. 

(Corey  hides  his  face  in  his  hands. 
Enter  the  ] ailkji,  followed  by  Rich- 
ard Gardner.) 

Jailer.  Here ’s  a seafaring  man,  one 
Richard  Gardner, 

A friend  of  yours,  who  asks  to  speak 
with  you. 

(Corey  They  embrace.) 

Corey.  I ’m  glad  to  see  you,  ay, 
right  glad  to  see  you. 

Gardner.  And  I most  sorely 
grieved  to  see  you  thus. 

Corey.  Of  all  the  friends  I had  in 
happier  days. 


You  are  the  first,  ay,  and  the  only  one. 
That  comes  to  seek  me  out  in  my  dis- 
grace ! 

And  you  but  come  in  time  to  say  fare- 
well. 

They ’ve  dug  my  grave  already  in  the 
field. 

I thank  you.  There  is  something  in 
your  presence, 

I know  not  what  it  is,  that  gives  me 
strength. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  bearing  of  a man 
Familiar  with  all  dangers  of  the  deep. 
Familiar  with  the  cries  of  drowning 
men. 

With  fire,  and  wreck,  and  foundering 
ships  at  sea ! 

Gardner.  Ah,  I have  never  know’n  a 
wreck  like  yours  ! 

Would  I could  save  you  ! 

Corey.  Do  not  speak  of  that. 

It  is  too  late.  I am  resolved  to  die. 

Gardner.  Why  would  you  die  who 
have  so  much  to  live  for  ? — 
Your  daughters,  and  — 

Corey.  You  cannot  say  the  word. 
My  daughters  have  gone  from  me. 
They  are  married ; 

They  have  their  homes,  their  thoughts, 
apart  from  me  ; 

I will  not  say  their  hearts, —that  were 
too  cruel. 

What  would  you  have  me  do? 

Gardner.  Confess  and  live. 

Corey.  That’s  what  they  said  who 
came  here  yesterday 
To  lay  a heavy  weight  upon  my  con- 
science 

By  telling  me  that  I was  driven  forth 
As  an  unworthy  member  of  their  church. 

Gardner.  It  is  an  awful  death. 

Corey.  ’T  is  but  to  drown. 

And  have  the  weight  of  all  the  seas 
upon  you. 

Gardner.  Say  something:  say 

enough  to  fend  off  death 
Till  this  tornado  of  fanactiism  _ 
Blows  itself  out.  Let  me  come  in  be- 
tween you 

And  your  severer  self,  with  my  plain 
sense  ; 

Do  not  be  obstinate. 

Corey.  I will  not  plead. 

If  I deny,  T am  condemned  already. 


GILES  COREY  OF  THE  SALEM  FARMS. 


19s 


In  courts  where  ghosts  appear  as  wit- 
nesses, 

And  swear  men’s  lives  away.  If  I con- 
fess, 

Then  I confess  a lie,  to  buy  a life 

Which  is  not  life,  but  only  death  in 
life. 

I will  not  bear  false  witness  against 
any, 

Not  even  against  myself,  whom  I count 
least. 

Gardner  {aside).  Ah,  what  a noble 
character  is  this  ! 

Corey.  I pray  you,  do  not  urge  me 
to  do  that 

You  would  not  do  yourself.  I have 
already 

The  bitter  taste  of  death  upon  my 
lips ; 

I feel  the  pressure  of  the  heavy  weight 

That  will  crush  out  my  life  within  this 
hour ; 

But  if  a word  could  save  me,  and  that 
word 

Were  not  the  Truth  ; nay,  if  it  did  but 
swerve 

A hair’s-breadth  from  the  Truth,  I 
would  not  say  it  ! 

Gardner  {aside).  How  mean  I seem 
beside  a man  like  this  ! 

Corey.  As  for  my  wife,  my  Martha 
and  my  Martyr,  — 

Whose  virtues,  like  the  stars,  unseen  by- 
day. 

Though  numberless,  do  but  await  the 
dark 

To  manifest  themselves  unto  all  eyes,  — 

She  who  first  won  me  from  my  evil 
ways. 

And  taught  me  how  to  live  by  her  ex- 
ample. 

By  her  example  teaches  me  to  die. 

And  leads  me  onward  to  the  better 
life  ! 

Sheriff  {without).  Giles  Corey  ! 
Come  ! The  hour  has  struck  ! 

Corey.  I come  ! 

Here  is  my  body  ; ye  may  torture  it, 

But  the  immortal  soul  ye  cannot  crush  ! 

\_Exeujit. 


Scene  III.  — A street  in  the  Village. 
Enter  Gloyd  and  others. 

Gloyd.  Quick,  or  we  shall  be  late  ! 
A Man.  That ’s  not  the  way. 

Come  here  ; come  up  this  lane. 

Gloyd.  I wonder  now 

If  the  old  man  will  die,  and  will  not 
speak  ? 

H e’s  obstinate  enough  and  tough  enough 

For  anything  on  earth. 

(A  bell  tolls.) 

Hark  ! What  is  thati 
A Man.  The  passing  bell.  He’^ 
dead  ! 

Gloyd.  We  are  too  late. 

{Exeunt  in  haste. 

Scene  IV.  — A field  near  the  grave- 
yard. Giles  Cokey  lying  dead, 
with  a great  stone  on  his  breast. 
The  Sheriff  at  his  head,  Richard 
Gardner  at  his  feet.  A crowd 
behind.  The  bell  tolling.  Enter 
Hathorne  arid  Mather. 

Hathorne.  Thisisthe  Potter’s  Field* 
Behold  the  fate 

Of  those  who  deal  in  Witchcrafts,  and, 
.rt'hen  questioned, 

Rciuse  to  plead  their  guilt  or  innocence. 

And,  stubbornly  drag  death  upon  them- 
selves. 

Mather.  O sight  most  horrible  ! In 
a land  like  this, 

Spafigled  with  Churches  Evangelical, 

Inwrapped  in  our  salvations,  must  we 
seek 

In  mouldering  statute-books  of  English 
Courts 

Some  old  forgotten  Law,  to  do  such 
deeds  ? 

Those  who  lie  buried  in  the  Potter’s 
Field  ^ 

Will  rise  again,  as  surely  as  ourselves 

That  sleep  in  honored  graves  with 
epitaphs  ; 

And  this  poor  man,  whom  we  have 
made  a victim. 

Hereafter  will  be  counted  as  a martyr  ! 


FINALE. 

ST.  JOHN. 


ST.  JOHN. 


Saint  John  wandering  over  the  face 
of  the  Earth. 

St.  John.  The  Ages  come  and  go, 
The  Centuries  pass  as  Years  ; 

My  hair  is  white  as  the  snow, 

My  feet  are  weary  and  slow, 

The  earth  is  wet  with  my  tears  ! 

The  kingdoms  crumble,  and  fall 
Apart,  like  a ruined  wall, 

Or  a bank  that  is  undermined 
By  a river’s  ceaseless  flow, 

And  leave  no  trace  behind  ! 

The  world  itself  is  old  ; 

The  portals  of  Time  unfold 
On  hinges  of  iron,  that  grate 
And  groan  with  the  rust  and  the  weight, 
Like  the  hinges  of  a gate 
That  hath  fallen  to  decay  ; 

But  the  evil  doth  not  cease ; 

There  is  war  instead  of  peace. 

Instead  of  love  there  is  hate  ; 

And  still  I must  wander  and  wait. 

Still  I must  watch  and  pray, 

Not  forgetting  in  whose  sight, 

A thousand  years  in  their  flight 
Are  as  a single  day. 

The  life  of  man  is  a gleam 
Of  light,  that  comes  and  goes 
Like  the  course  of  the  Holy  Stream, 
The  cityless  river,  that  flows 
From  fountains  no  one  knows. 

Through  the  Lake  of  Galilee, 

Through  forests  and  level  lands. 

Over  rocks,  and  shallows,  and  sands 
Of  a wilderness  wild  and  vast. 

Till  it  findeth  its  rest  at  last 
In  the  desolate  Dead  Sea  ! 


But  alas  ! alas  for  me. 

Not  yet  this  rest  shall  be  ! 

What,  then  ! doth  Charity  fail? 

Is  Faith  of  no  avail  ? 

Is  Hope  blown  out  like  a light 
By  a gust  of  wind  in  the  night  ? 

The  clashing  of  creeds,  and  the  strife 
Of  the  many  beliefs,  that  in  vain 
Perplex  man’s  heart  and  brain. 

Are  naught  but  the  rustle  of  leaves. 
When  the  breath  of  God  upheaves 
The  boughs  of  the  Tree  of  Life, 

And  they  subside  again  ! 

And  I remember  still 

The  words,  and  from  whom  they  came. 

Not  he  that  repeateth  the  name. 

But  he  that  doeth  the  will  ! 

And  Him  evermore  I behold 
Walking  in  Galilee, 

Through  the  cornfield’s  waving  gold. 

In  hamlet,  in  wood,  and  in  wold. 

By  the  shores  of  the  Beautiful  Sea. 

He  toucheth  the  sightless  eyes ; 

Before  him  the  demons  flee  : 

To  the  dead  he  sayeth  : Arise  ! 

To  the  living  : Follow  me  ! 

And  that  voice  still  soundeth  on 
From  the  centuries  that  are  gone. 

To  the  centuries  that  shall  be  I 

From  all  vain  pomps  and  shows. 

From  the  pride  that  overflows. 

And  the  false  conceits  of  men  ; 

From  all  the  narrow  rules 
And  subtleties  of  Schools, 

And  the  craft  of  tongue  and  pen  ; 
Bewildered  in  its  search. 

Bewildered  with  the  cry  : 


200 


ST.  JOHN. 


Lo,  here  ! lo,  there,  the  Church  I 
Poor,  sad  Humanity 
Through  all  the  dust  and  heat 
Turns  back  with  bleeding  feet, 
By  the  weary  road  it  came, 


Unto  the  simple  thought 
By  the  Great  Master  taught, 

And  that  remaineth  still : 

Not  he  that  repeateth  the  name. 
But  he  that  doeth  the  will  1 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


Page  73.  The  Golden  Legend. 

The  old  Legenda  Attrea,  or  Golden 
Legend,  was  originally  written  in  Latin, 
in  the  thirteenth  centiir)'^,  by  Jacobus 
de  Voragine,  a Dominican  friar,  who 
afterwards  became  Archbishop  of 
Genoa,  and  died  in  1292. 

He  called  his  book  simply  “ Legends 
of  the  Saints.”  The  epithet  of  Golden 
was  given  it  by  his  admirers ; for,  as 
Wynkin  de  Worde  says,  “ Like  as  pass- 
eth  gold  in  value  all  other  metals,  so 
this  Legend  exceedeth  all  other  books  ” 
But  Edward  Leigh,  in  much  distress  of 
mind,  calls  it  “ a book  written  by  a man 
ofa  leaden  heart  for  the  basenesse  of  the 
errours,  that  are  without  wit  or  reason, 
and  of  a brazen  forehead,  for  his  impu- 
dent boldnesse  in  reporting  things  so 
fabulous  and  incredible.” 

This  work,  the  great  text-book  of  the 
legendary  lore  of  the  Middle  Ages,  was 
translated  into  French  in  the  fourteenth 
century  by  Jean  de  Vignay,  and  in  the 
fifteenth  into  English  by  William  Cax- 
ton.  It  has  lately  been  made  more  ac- 
cessible by  a new  French  translation: 
La  Legende  Dorie,  traduite  du  Latin, 
far  M.  G.  B.  Paris,  1850.  There  is 
a copy  of  the  original,  with  the  Gesta 
Lo7igobardorum  appended,  in  the 
Harvard  College  Library,  Cambridge, 
printed  at  Strasburg,  1496.  The  title- 
page  is  wanting  ; and  the  volume  begins 
with  the  Tahida  Legendorum 

I have  called  this  poem  the  Golden 
Legend,  because  the  story  upon  which 
it  is  founded  seems  to  me  to  surpass  all 
other  legends  in  beauty  and  significance. 


It  exhibits,  amid  the  corruptions  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  the  virtue  of  disinterest- 
edness and  self-sacrifice,  and  the  power 
of  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,  sufficient 
for  all  the  exigencies  of  life  and  death. 
The  story  is  told,  and  perhaps  invented, 
by  Hartmann  von  der  Aue,  a Minne- 
singer of  the  twelfth  century.  The 
original  may  be  found  in  Mailath’s  Alt- 
deutsche  Gedichte,  with  a modern  Ger- 
man version.  There  is  another  in  Mar- 
bach’s  Volksbilcher,  No.  32. 

Page  73. 

For  these  bells  have  been  anointed, 

A nd  baptized  with  holy  water  I 

The  Consecration  and  Baptism  of 
Bells  is  one  of  the  most  curious  ceremo- 
nies of  the  Church  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  Council  of  Cologne  ordained  as  fol- 
lows : — 

“ Let  the  bells  be  blessed,  as  the 
trumpets  of  the  Church  militant,  by 
which  the  people  are  assembled  to  hear 
the  word  of  God  ; the  clergy  to  an- 
nounce his  mercy  by  day,  and  his  truth 
in  their  nocturnal  vigils  : that  by  their 
sound  the  faithful  may  be  invited  to 
prayers,  and  that  the  spirit  of  devotion 
in  them  may  be  increased.  The  fathers 
have  also  maintained  that  demons  af- 
frighted by  the  sound  of  bells  calling 
Christians  to  prayers,  would  flee  away  ; 
and  when  they  fled,  the  persons  of 
the  faithful  would  be  secure : that 
the  destruction  of  lightnings  and  whirl- 
winds would  be  averted,  and  the  spirits 
of  the  storm  defeated.”  — Edmburgh 


204 


NOTES. 


E^icyclopcedia,  Art.  Bells.  See  also 
Scheible’s  Kloster,  VI.  776. 

Page  83.  It  is  the  malediction  0/ 
Eve  ! 

“Nec  esses  plus  quam  femina,  quae 
nunc  etiam  viros  transcendis,  et  qu$ 
maledictionem  Evae  in  benedictionem 
vertisti  Mariae.”  — Epistola  Abcelardi 
Heloissce. 

Page  92.  T 0 come  hack  to  my  text  ! 

In  giving  this  sermon  of  Friar  Cuth- 
bert  as  a specimen  of  the  Risus  Pas- 
chales^  or  street-preaching  of  the  monks 
at  Easter,  I have  exaggerated  nothing. 
This  very  anecdote,  offensive  as  it  is, 
comes  from  a discourse  of  Father  Bar- 
letta,  a Dominican  friar  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  whose  fame  as  a popular 
preacher  was  so  great,  that  it  gave  rise 
to  the  proverb, 

Nescit  predicare 
Qui  ftescit  Barlettare. 

“Among  the  abuses  introduced  in 
this  century,”  says  Tiraboschi,  “was 
that  of  exciting  from  the  pulpit  the 
laughter  of  the  hearers  ; as  if  that  were 
the  same  thing  as  converting  them. 
We  have  examples  of  this,  not  only  in 
Italy,  but  also  in  France,  where  the 
sermons  of  Menot  and  Maillard,  and 
of  others,  who  would  make  a better  ap- 
pearance on  the  stage  than  in  the  pul- 
pit, are  still  celebrated  for  such  follies.” 

If  the  reader  is  curious  to  see  how 
far  the  freedom  of  speech  was  carried 
in  these  popular  sermons,  he  is  referred 
to  Scheible’s  Kloster,  Vol.  I.,  where 
he  will  find  extracts  from  Abraham  a 
Sancta  Clara,  Sebastian  Frank,  and 
others  ; and  in  particular  an  anonymous 
discourse  called  Der  Grduel  der  Ver- 
ivushmg.  The  Abomination  of  Desola- 
tion, preached  at  Ottakring,  a village 
west  of  Vienna,  November  25,  1782,  in 
which  the  license  of  language  is  carried 
to  its  utmost  limit. 

See  also  Prcdicatoriana,  ou  Revela- 
tions  singulibres  et  aimisantes  S7ir  les 
Pridicateurs  ; par  G.  P.  Philotmieste. 
(Menin.)  This  work  contains  extracts 
from  the  popular  sermons  of  St.  Vin- 


cent Ferrier,  Barletta,  Menot,  Maillard, 
Marini,  Raulin,  Valladier,  De  Besse, 
Camus,  Pere  Andre,  Bening,  and  the 
most  eloquent  of  all,  Jacques  Brydaine. 

My  authority  for  the  spiritual  inter- 
pretation of  bell-ringing,  w'hich  follows, 
IS  Durandus,  Ration.  Divin.  Offic., 
Lib.  I.  cap.  4. 

Page  93.  The  Nativity  : a Mir- 
acle-Play. 

A singular  chapter  in  the  history  of 
the  Middle  Ages  is  that  which  gives 
account  of  the  early  Christian  Drama, 
the  Mysteries,  Moralities,  and  Miracle- 
Plays,  which  were  at  first  performed  in 
churches,  and  afterwards  in  the  streets, 
on  fixed  or  movable  stages.  For  the 
most  part,  the  Mysteries  were  founded 
on  the  historic  portions  of  the  Old 
and  New  Testaments,  and  the  Miracle- 
Plays  on  the  lives  of  Saints  ; a distinc- 
tion not  always  observed,  however, 
for  in  Mr.  Wright’s  “ Early  Mysteries 
and  other  Latin  Poems  of  the  Twelfth 
and  Thirteenth  Centuries,”  the  Resur- 
rection of  Lazarus  is  called  a Miracle, 
and  not  a Mystery.  The  Moralities 
were  plays,  in  which  the  Virtues  and 
Vices  were  personified. 

The  earliest  religious  play,  which  has 
been  preserved,  is  the  Christos  Pas- 
chon  of  Gregory  Nazianzen,  written  in 
Greek,  in  the  fourth  century.  Next  to 
this  come  the  remarkable  Latin  plays 
of  Roswitha,  the  Nun  of  Gandersheim, 
in  the  tenth  century,  which,  though 
crude  and  wanting  in  artistic  construc- 
tion, are  marked  by  a good  deal  of 
dramatic  power  and  interest.  A hand- 
some edition  of  these  plays,  with  a 
French  translation,  has  been  lately  pub- 
lished, entitled  Theatre  de  Rotsvitha, 
Religieuse  allemande  du  Siecle. 
Par  Charles  Magnin.  Paris,  1845. 

The  most  important  collections  of 
English  Mysteries  and  Miracle-Plays 
are  those  known  as  the  Townley,  the 
Chester,  and  the  Coventry  Plays.  The 
first  of  these  collections  has  been  pub- 
lished by  the  Surtees  Society,  and  the 
other  two  by  the  Shakespeare  Society. 
In  his  Introduction  to  the  Coventry 
Mysteries,  the  editor,  Mr.  Halliwell, 


NOTES. 


205 


quotes  the  following  passage  from 
Dugdale’s  Antiquities  of  Wcirwick- 
shire : — 

“ Before  the  suppression  of  the  mon- 
asteries, this  city  was  very  famous  for 
the  pageants,  that  were  played  therein, 
upon  Corpus-Christi  day  ; which,  oc- 
casioning very  great  confluence  of  peo- 
ple thither,  from  far  and  near,  was  of 
no  small  benefit  thereto ; which  pa- 
geants being  acted  with  mighty  state 
and  reverence  by  the  friars  of  tliis 
house,  had  theaters  for  the  severall 
scenes,  very  large  and  high,  placed  up- 
on wheels,  and  drawn  to  all  the  emi- 
nent parts  of  the  city,  for  the  better  ad- 
vantage of  spectators  : and  contain’d 
the  story  of  the  New  Testament,  com- 
posed into  old  English  Rithme,  as  ap- 
peareth  by  an  ancient  MS.  intituled 
Ludiis  Corporis  Christi,  ox  Ltidus  Con- 
ventrice.  1 have  been  told  by  some 
old  people,  who  in  their  younger  years 
w'ere  eyewitnesses  of  these-  pageants  so 
acted,  that  the  yearly  confluence  of  peo- 
ple to  see  that  shew  was  extraordinary 
great,  and  yielded  no  small  advantage 
to  this  city.” 

The  representation  of  religious  plays 
has  not  yet  been  wholly  discontinued 
by  the  Roman  Church.  At  Ober-Am- 
mergau,  in  the  Tyrol,  a grand  spectacle 
of  this  kind  is  exhibited  once  in  ten 
years.  A very  graphic  description  of 
that  which  took  place  in  the  year  1850 
is  given  by  Miss  Anna  Mary  Howitt, 
in  her  “Art-Student  in  Munich,”  Vol. 
I.  Chap.  IV.  She  says:  — 

“We  had  come  expecting  to  feel  our 
souls  revolt  at  so  material  a representa-. 
tion  of  Christ,  as  any  representation  of 
him  we  naturally  imagined  must  be  in 
a peasant’s  Miracle- Play.  Yet  so  far, 
strange  to  confess,  neither  horror,  dis- 
gust, nor  contempt  was  excited  in  our 
minds.  Such  an  earnest  solemnity 
and  simplicity  breathed  throughout  the 
whole  of  the  performance,  that  to  me, 
at  least,  anything  like  anger,  or  a per- 
ception of  the  ludicrous,  would  have 
seemed  more  irreverent  on  my  part 
than  was  this  simple,  childlike  render- 
ing of  the  sublime  Christian  tragedy. 
We  felt  at  times  as  though  the  figures 


of  Cimabue’s,  Giotto’s,  and  Perugino’s 
pictures  had  become  animated,  and 
were  moving  before  us  ; there  was  the 
same  simple  arrangement  and  brilliant 
color  of  drapery, — the  same  earnest, 
quiet  dignity  about  the  heads,  whilst 
the  entire  absence  of  all  theatrical  ef- 
fect wonderfully  increased  the  illusion. 
There  were  scenes  and  groups  so  ex- 
traordinarily like  the  early  Italian  pic- 
tures, that  you  could  have  declared  they 
were  the  works  of  Giotto  and  Perugino, 
and  not  living  men  and  women,  had  not 
the  figures  moved  and  spoken,  and  the 
breeze  stirred  their  richly  colored  dra- 
pery, and  the  sun  cast  long,  moving 
shadows  behind  them  on  the  stage. 
These  effects  of  sunshine  and  shadow, 
and  of  drapery  fluttered  by  the  wind, 
were  very  striking  and  beautiful ; one 
could  imagine  how  the  Greeks  must 
have  availed  themselves  of  such  strik- 
ing effects  in  their  theatres  open  to  the 
sky.” 

Mr.  Bayard  Taylor,  in  his  “ Eldora- 
do,” gives  a description  of  a Mystery 
he  saw  performed  at  San  Lionel,  in 
Mexico.  See  Vol.  II.  Chap.  XI. 

“Against  the  wing-wall  of  the  Haci- 
enda del  Mayo,  which  occupied  one 
end  of  the  plaza,  was  raised  a platform, 
on  which  stood  a table  covered  with 
scarlet  cloth.  A rude  bower  of  cane- 
leaves,  on  one  end  of  the  platform,  rep- 
resented the  manger  of  Bethlehem  ; 
while  a cord,  stretched  from  its  top 
across  the  plaza  to  a hole  in  the  front 
of  the  church,  bore  a large  tinsel  star, 
suspended  by  a hole  in  its  centre. 
There  was  quite  a crowd  in  the  plaza, 
and  very  soon  a procession  appeared, 
coming  up  from  the  lower  part  of  the 
village.  The  three  kings  took  the  lead  ; 
the  Virgin,  mounted  on  an  ass  that 
gloried  in  a gilded  saddle  and  rose-be- 
sprinkled mane  and  tail,  followed  them, 
led  by  the  angel  ; and  several  women, 
with  curious  masks  of  paper,  brought 
up  the  rear.  Two  characters,  of  the 
harlequin  sort  — one  with  a dog’s  head 
on  his  shoulders,  and  the  other  a bald- 
headed  friar,  with  a huge  hat  hanging 
on  his  back  — played  all  sorts  of  antics 
for  the  diversion  of  the  crowd.  After 


2o6 


NOTES. 


making  the  circuit  of  the  plaza,  the  Vir- 
gin was  taken  to  the  platform,  and  en- 
tered the  manger.  King  Herod  took 
his  seat  at  the  scarlet  table,  wdth  an  at- 
tendant in  blue  coat  and  red  sash,  whom 
I took  to  be  his  Prime  Minister.  The 
three  kings  remained  on  their  horses 
in  front  of  the  church ; but  between 
them  and  the  platform,  under  the  string 
on  which  the  star  was  to  slide,  walked 
two  men  in  long  white  robes  and  blue 
hoods,  with  parchment  folios  in  their 
hands.  These  were  the  Wise  Men  of 
the  East,  as  one  might  readily  know 
from  their  solemn  air,  and  the  mysteri- 
ous glances  which  they  cast  towards  all 
quarters  of  the  heavens. 

“ In  a little  while,  a company  of  wo- 
men on  the  platform,  concealed  behind 
a curtain,  sang  an  angelic  chorus  to  the 
tune  of  ‘ O pescator  dell’onda.’  At  the 
proper  moment,  the  Magi  turned  to- 
wards the  platform,  followed  by  the 
star,  to  which  a string  was  conveniently 
attached,  that  it  might  be  slid  along  the 
line.  The  three  kings  followed  the 
star  till  it  reached  the  manger,  when 
they  dismounted,  and  inquired  for  the 
sovereign  whom  it  had  led  them  to 
visit.  They  were  invited  upon  the 
platform,  and  introduced  to  Herod,  as 
the  only  king;  this  did  not  seem  to 
satisfy  them,  and,  after  some  conversa- 
tion, they  retired.  By  this  time  the 
star  had  receded  to  the  other  end  of 
the  line,  and  commenced  moving  for- 
ward again,  they  following.  The  angel 
called  them  into  the  manger,  where, 
upon  their  knees,  they  were  shown  a 
small  wooden  box,  supposed  to  contain 
the  sacred  infant ; they  then  retired, 
and  the  star  brought  them  back  no  more. 
After  this  departure,  King  Herod  de- 
clared himself  greatly  confused  by  what 
he  had  witnessed,  and  was  very  much 
afraid  this  newly  found  king  would 
weaken  his  power.  Upon  consultation 
with  his  Prime  Minister,  the  Massacre 
of  the  Innocents  was  decided  upon,  as 
the  only  means  of  security. 

“ The  angel,  on  hearing  this,  gave 
warning  to  the  Virgin,  who  quickly  got 
down  from  the  platform',  mounted  her 
bespangled  donkey,  and  hurried  off. 


Herod’s  Prime  Minister  directed  all 
the  children  to  be  handed  up  for  exe- 
cution. A boy,  in  a ragged  sarape, 
was  caught  and  thrust  forward ; the 
Minister  took  him  by  the  heels  in  spite 
of  his  kicking,  and  held  his  head  on 
the  table.  The  little  brother  and  sister 
of  the  boy,  thinking  he  was  really  to 
be  decapitated,  yelled  at  the  top  of 
their  voices,  in  an  agony  of  terror, 
which  threw  the  crowd  into  a roar  of 
laughter.  King  Herod  brought  down 
his  sword  with  a whack  on  the  table, 
and  the  Prime  Minister,  dipping  his 
brush  into  a pot  of  white  paint  which 
stood  before  him,  made  a flaring  cross 
on  the  boy’s  face.  Several  other  boys 
were  caught  and  served  likewise  ; and, 
finally,  the  two  harlequins,  whose  kicks 
and  struggles  nearly  shook  down  the 
platform.  The  procession  then  went 
off  up  the  hill,  followed  by  the  whole 
population  of  the  village.  All  the 
evening  there  were  fandangos  in  the 
meson,  bonfires  and  rockets  on  the 
plaza,  ringing  of  bells,  and  high  mass 
in  the  church,  with  the  accompaniment 
of  two  guitars,  tinkling  to  lively  pol- 
kas.” 

In  1852  there  was  a representation 
of  this  kind  by  Germans  in  Boston  : 
and  I have  now  before  me  the  copy  of 
a play-bill  announcing  the  perform- 
ance, on  June  10,  1852,  in  Cincinnati, 
of  the  “ Great  Biblico-Historical  Dra- 
ma, the  Life  of  Jesus  Christ,”  with 
the  characters  and  the  names  of  the 
performers. 

Page  loi.  The  Scriptorium. 

A most  interesting  volume  might  be 
written  on  the  Calligraphers  and  Chry- 
sographers,  the  transcribers  and  illumi- 
nators of  manuscripts  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  These  men  were  for  the  most 
part  monks,  who  labored,  sometimes 
for  pleasure  and  sometimes  for  penance, 
in  multiplying  copies  of  the  classics 
and  the  Seriptures. 

“ Of  all  bodily  labors,  which  are 
proper  for  us,”  says  Cassiodorus,  the 
old  Calabrian  monk,  “that  of  copying 
books  has  always  been  more  to  my 
taste  than  any  other.  The  more  so,  as 


NOTES. 


207 


in  this  exercise  the  mind  is  instructed 
by  the  reading  of  the  Holy  Scriptures, 
and  it  is  a kind  of  homily  to  the  others, 
whom  these  books  may  reach.  It  is 
preaching  with  the  hand,  by  converting 
the  fingers  into  tongues ; it  is  publish- 
ing to  men  in  silence  the  words  of  sal- 
vation ; in  fine,  it  is  fighting  against 
the  demon  with  pen  and  ink.  As  many 
w’ords  as  a transcriber  writes,  so  many 
w'ounds  the  demon  receives.  In  a 
word,  a recluse,  seated  in  his  chair  to 
copy  books,  travels  into  different  prov- 
inces, without  moving  from  the  spot, 
and  the  labor  of  his  hands  is  felt  even 
where  he  is  not.” 

Nearly  every  monastery  was  provided 
with  its  Scriptorium.  Nicolas  de 
Clairvaux,  St.  Bernard’s  secretary,  in 
one  of  his  letters  describes  his  cell, 
which  he  calls  Scriptoriolum,  where  he 
copied  books.  And  Mabillon,  in  his 
Etudes  Monastiques,  says  that  in  his 
time  were  still  to  be  seen  at  Citeanx 
“many  of  those  little  cells,  where  the 
transcribers  and  bookbinders  worked.” 

Silvestre’s  Paleographie  Universelle 
contains  a vast  number  of  fac-similes 
of  the  most  beautiful  illuminated  man- 
uscripts of  all  ages  and  all  coun- 
tries ; and  Montfaucon  in  his  Palce- 
ographia  Grceca  gives  the  names  of 
over  three  hundred  calligraphers.  He 
also  gives  an  account  of  the  books  they 
copied,  and  the  colophons,  with  which, 
as  with  a satisfactory  flourish  of  the 
pen,  they  closed  their  long-continued 
labors.  Many  of  these  are  very  curi- 
ous : expressing  joy,  humility,  remorse ; 
entreating  the  reader’s  prayers  and  par- 
don for  the  writer’s  sins ; and  some- 
times pronouncing  a malediction  on 
any  one  who  should  steal  the  book. 
A few  of  these  I subjoin  : — 

“As  pilgrims  rejoice,  beholding  their 
native  land,  so  are  transcribers  made 
glad,  beholding  the  end  of  a book.” 

“ Sweet  is  it  to  write  the  end  of  any 
book.” 

“ Ye  who  read,  pray  for  me,  who 
have  written  this  book,  the  humble  and 
sinful  Theodulus.” 

“As  many  therefore  as  shall  read 
this  book,  pardon  me,  I beseech  you, 


if  aught  I have  erred  in  accent  acute 
and  grave,  in  apostrophe,  in  breathing 
soft  or  aspirate  ; and  may  God  save  you 
all ! Amen.” 

“ If  anything  is  well,  praise  the  tran- 
scriber: ifill,  pardon  his  unskilfulness.” 
“ Ye  who  read,  pray  for  me,  the  most 
sinful  of  all  men,  for  the  Lord’s  sake.” 
“The  hand  that  has  written  this 
book  shall  decay,  alas ! and  become 
dust,  and  go  down  to  the  grave,  the 
corrupter  of  all  bodies.  But  all  ye  who 
are  of  the  portion  of  Christ,  pray  that  I 
may  obtain  the  pardon  of  my  sins. 
Again  and  again  I beseech  you  with 
tears,  brothers  and  fathers,  accept  my 
miserable  supplication,  O holy  choir ! 
I am  called  John,  woe  is  me  ! I am 
called  Hiereus,  or  Sacerdos,  in  name 
only,  not  in  unction.” 

“Whoever  shall  carry  away  this 
book,  without  permission  of  the  Pope, 
may  he  incur  the  malediction  of  the 
Holy  Trinity,  of  the  Holy  Mother  of 
God,  of  Saint  John  the  Baptist,  of  the 
one  hundred  and  eighteen  holy  Nicene 
Fathers,  and  of  all  the  Saints  ; the  fate 
of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  ; and  the  hal- 
ter of  Judas  ! Anathema,  amen.” 
“Keep  safe,  O Trinity,  Father,  Son, 
and  Holy  Ghost,  my  three  fingers,  with 
which  I have  written  this  book.” 

“ Mathusalas  Machir  transcribed 
this  divinest  book  in  toil,  infirmity, 
and  dangers  many.” 

“ Bacchius  Barbardorius  and  Mi- 
chael Sophianus  wrote  this  book  in 
sport  and  laughter,  being  the  guests  of 
their  noble  and  common  friend  Vin- 
centius  Pinellus,  and  Petrus  Nunnius, 
a most  learned  man.” 

This  last  colophon,  Montfaucon  does 
not  suffer  to  pass  without  reproof. 
“ Other  calligraphers,”  he  remarks, 
“demand  only  the  prayers  of  their 
readers,  and  the  pardon  of  their  sins  ; 
but  these  glory  in  their  wantonness.” 

Page  105.  Drink  downto  your  peg  ! 
One  of  the  canons  of  Archbishop 
Anselm,  promulgated  at  the  beginning 
of  the  twelfth  century,  ordains  “that 
priests  go  not  to  drinking-bouts,  nor 
drink  to  pegs.”  In  the  times  of  the 


NOTES. 


hard-drinking  Danes,  King  Edgar  or- 
dained that  “ pins  or  nails  should  be 
fastened  into  the  drinking-cups  or 
horns  at  stated  distances,  and  whoso- 
ever should  drink  beyond  those  marks 
at  one  draught  should  be  obnoxious  to 
a severe  punishment.” 

Sharpe,  in  his  History  of  the  Kings  of 
England,  says:  “Our  ancestors  were 
formerly  famous  for  compotation  ; their 
liquor  was  ale,  and  one  method  of 
amusing  themselves  in  this  way  was 
with  the  peg-tankard.  I had  lately 
one  of  them  in  my  hand.  It  had  on 
the  inside  a row  of  eight  pins,  one 
above  another,  from  top  to  bottom.  It 
held  two  quarts,  and  was  a noble  piece 
of  plate,  so  that  there  was  a gill  of  ale, 
half  a pint  Wincester  measure,  between 
each  peg.  The  law  was,  that  every 
person  that  drank  was  to  empty  the 
space  between  pin  and  pin,  so  that  the 
pins  were  so  many  measures  to  make  the 
company  all  drink  alike,  and  to  swal- 
low the  same  quantity  of  liquor.  This 
was  a pretty  sure  method  of  making  all 
the  company  drunk,  especially  if  it  be 
considered  that  the  rule  was,  that  who- 
ever drank  short  of  his  pin,  or  beyond 
it,  was  obliged  to  drink  again,  and  even 
as  deep  as  to  the  next  pin.” 

Page  105.  The  convent  of  St.  Gil- 
das  de  Rhuys. 

Abelard,  in  a letter  to  his  friend 
Philintus,  gives  a sad  picture  of  this 
monastery.  “ I live,”  he  says,  “ in  a 
barbarous  country,  the  language  of 
which  I do  not  understand ; I have  no 
conversation  but  with  the  rudest  peo- 
ple. my  walks  are  on  the  inaccessible 
shore  of  a sea,  which  is  perpetually 
stormy,  my  monks  are  only  known  by 
their  dissoluteness,  and  living  without 
any  rule  or  order,  could  you  see  the 
abby,  Philintus,  you  would  not  call  it 
one.  the  doors  and  walks  are  without 
any  ornament,  except  the  heads  of  wild 
boars  and  hinds  feet,  which  are  nailed 
up  against  them,  and  the  hides  of  fright- 
ful animals,  the  cells  are  hung  with 
the  skins  of  deer,  the  monks  have  not 
so  much  as  a bell  to  wake  them,  the 
cocks  and  dogs  supply  that  defect,  in 


short,  they  pass  their  whole  days  in 
hunting  ; would  to  heaven  that  were 
their  greatest  fault  ! or  that  their  pleas- 
ures terminated  there  ! I endeavor  in 
vain  to  recall  them  to  their  duty  ; they 
all  combine  against  me,  and  I only  ex- 
pose myself  to  continual  vexations  and 
dangers.  I imagine  I see  every  mo- 
ment a naked  sword  hang  over  my 
head,  sometimes  they  surround  me, 
and  load  me  with  infinite  abuses ; 
sometimes  they  abandon  me,  and  I 
am  left  alone  to  my  own  tonnenting 
thoughts.  I make  it  my  endeavor  to 
merit  by  my  sufferings,  and  to  appease 
an  angry  God.  sometimes  I grieve  for 
the  loss  of  the  house  of  the  Paraclete, 
and  wish  to  see  it  again,  ah  Philintus, 
does  not  the  love  of  Heloise  still  bum 
in  my  heart  ? I have  not  yet  triumphed 
over  that  unhappy  passion,  in  the 
midst  of  my  retirement  I sigh,  I weep, 
I pine,  I speak  the  dear  name  Heloise, 
and  am  pleased  to  hear  the  sound.”  — 
Letters  of  the  Celebrated  Abelard  and 
Heloise.  Translated  by  Mr.  John 
Hughes.  Glasgow,  1751. 

Page  1 1 3.  Were  it  not  for  my 
magic  garters  and  staff. 

The  method  of  making  the  Magic 
Garters  and  the  Magic  Staff  is  thus 
laid  down  in  Les  Secrets  Merveilleux 
du  Petit  A Ibert,  a F rench  translation 
of  Alberti  Parvi  Lucii  Libellus  de 
Mirabilibus  Naturce  A rcanis  : — 

“Gather  some  of  the  herb  called 
motherwort,  when  the  sun  is  entering 
the  first  degree  of  the  sign  of  Capri- 
corn ; let  it  dry  a little  in  the  shade, 
and  make  some  garters  of  the  skin  of  a 
young  hare  ; that  is  to  say,  having  cut 
the  skin  of  the  hare  into  strips  two 
indies  wide,  double  them,  sew  the 
before-mentioned  herb  between,  and 
wear  them  on  your  legs.  No  horse 
can  long  keep  up  with  a man  on  foot, 
who  is  furnished  with  these  garters.” 
— p.  128. 

“Gather,  on  the  morrow  of  All- 
Saints,  a strong  branch  of  willow,  of 
which  you  will  make  a staff,  fashioned 
to  your  liking.  Hollow  it  out,  by  re- 
moving the  pith  from  within,  after  hav- 


NOTES. 


ing  furnished  the  lower  end  with  an 
iron  ferule.  Put  into  the  bottom  of 
the  staff  the  two  eyes  of  a young  wolf, 
the  tongue  and  heart  of  a dog,  three 
green  lizards,  and  the  hearts  of  three 
swallows.  These  must  .all  be  dried  in 
the  sun,  between  two  papers,  having 
been  first  sprinkled  with  finely  pul- 
verized saltpetre.  Besides  all  these, 
put  into  the  staff  seven  leaves  of  ver- 
vain, gathered  on  the  eve  of  St.  John 
the  Baptist,  with  a stone  of  divers 
colors,  which  you  will  find  in  the  nest 
of  the  lapwing,  and  stop  the  end  of  the 
staff  with  a pomel  of  box,  or  of  any 
other  material  you  please,  and  be  as- 
sured, that  the  staff  will  guarantee  you 
from  the  perils  and  mishaps  which  too 
often  befall  travellers,  either  from  rob- 


bers, wild  beasts,  mad  dogs,  or  venom- 
ous animals.  It  will  also  procure  you 
the  good-will  of  those  with  whom  you 
lodge.”  — p.  130. 

Page  116.  Saint  Elmo's  stars. 

So  the  Italian  sailors  call  the  phos- 
phorescent gleams  that  sometimes  play 
about  the  masts  and  rigging  of  ships. 

Page  116.  The  School  of  Salerno. 

For  a history  of  the  celebrated 
schools  of  Salerno  and  Monte-Cassino, 
the  reader  is  referred  to  Sir  Alexander 
Croke’s  Introduction  to  the  Regimen 
Sanitatis  Salernitanum  i and  to  Kurt 
Sprengel’s  Geschichte  der  A rzneikun- 
de,  l.  463,  or  Jourdan’s  French  trans- 
lation of  it,  Histoire  de  la  Medicine, 
II.  354- 


Cambridge:  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  & Co. 


PS  LONGFELLOW. 

2258 

•A1 

1873 


Bapst  Library 

Boston  College 
Chestnut  Hill,  Mass.  02167 


